


Light Beyond My Reach

by temporalDecay



Series: a distrait life of mistakes [10]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Politics, lots and lots of politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which no one is infallible, Sollux Captor fucks up royally, being an Empress sucks and Feferi Peixes makes peace with these facts.</p><p>No SGRUB AU, post successful coup, featuring Feferi "Come Hell Or High Water" Peixes, Eridan "Why Am I Even Here?" Ampora, Karkat "Do What I Must" Vantas, Aradia "I Know Something You Don't" Megido, Kanaya "I Am The Last Sane Troll In This Ship" Maryam, Terezi "Why The Fuck Not?" Pyrope, Gamzee "For The Lulz" Makara, Sollux "Oh Shit" Captor, Nepeta "I Know How This Works" Leijon, Garfit "Shut Up" Imoogi, Aideen "Fuck You" Wukong, Agness "Why Me?" Syzygy, the rest of the Imoogi clade and a very, very wise Psiioniic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Beyond My Reach

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out Distrait has a plot beyond Eridan having ridiculously hot and kinky sex with various people. Turns out the world outside Eridan's perception is a lot more complicated than he thought.
> 
> Who knew! (I did. I'm not sorry.)

You’ve grown complacent, as the decades pile up into centuries. 

You chose your title purposely, like a promise to yourself and your people. That you’d take the war machine Condesce built, and slowly unravel it into something far less cruel, until everyone could be at peace with their place in the world. You remember the duel for the crown quite vividly, though the memories come at your command now, rather than haunt you in dreams whenever you close your eyes like they used to. You remember the words she whispered into your ear, when you finally stuck a culling fork into her chest. You remember her smile as she went down, half-hugging you as she did, until she sank into a puddle of her own blood and Gl'bgolyb claimed her body from the arena. You remember Karkat freaking out about it and Sollux asking if you’d know and Aradia smiling as she watched, but most of all, you remember hating your predecessor more than anything, for feeding the doubt and the fear already festering in the back of your head. 

_They’re yours now_ , she’d said, with the last breath she had, blood gushing down her gills and her mouth, _don’t fuck it up, guppy_. 

It took you decades to stop blindly hating Condesce, because her words forced you to look at her Empire from a different angle. It made you realize she had not piled senseless cruelty upon senseless cruelty just because. It made you realize there was a horrifyingly reasonable explanation for each and every thing you ever hated about her rule, that when the choices were made, the alternatives had been _worse_. In the beginning, that realization made you think Condesce told you that just to tempt you into following along with her ideals and her policies, and out of spite you decided to look for better solutions. When the bitterness dried out over time, you began to see her words as less of a curse and more of a warning. Sometimes, when you’re particularly morose and tired and despite it all the problems keep on coming, you want to go back to Alternia, to the ruinous city at the bottom of the sea, and see if the ghosts of Empresses past will help you sort out your doubts. But it feels like weakness, going back, it feels like rethreading the steps you told yourself you would avoid. 

So instead you reach out through the psychic link that binds you to your lusus and whisper soothing words to her, confident words. The world is as it should be, and you will keep it that way. Your lusus, kept bloated and content by the constant offerings of the seadwellers tasked with such an important duty, purrs back in the quietest murmur, entertaining herself with the memories and the echoes of your predecessors. She’s almost drowsy, now that you’re away, but you can still feel her, and you make a point to come back often, to remind her that you will not leave her behind. 

Life is decent enough, despite all the problems and wars and endless stream of conflict. 

Life is good, and you’ve grown complacent about it, but you never realized how much, until you stared at Terezi Pyrope in the face, while she stabs you in the gut with her cane. 

There’s a surreal moment as the blade goes through the heavy silks of your dress and slides into flesh. The pain throbs for a moment and then fades into a faint, unimportant tingling as your mind loses control of your body for a second and the next thing you know you have Terezi pinned against the wall, her throat caught in between the prongs of your culling fork. 

“Who are you?” You demand, voice cold and ruthless as the facsimile grins a tad too widely, cane clattering on the floor. 

“Too late for it to matter, isn’t it?” She smirks, going limp against the wall as blood gushes dramatically down your side. “Isn’t that how it’s always with you, Your Imperial Highness?” 

“Who _are_ you?” You repeat, louder and more shrilly, as the reality of the situation begins to sink in all around you. 

“Justice,” she laughs, and even her laugh is eerily the same. High and pitched and mocking, piercing through your ears like swords. She spits at your eyes while you stare at her burnt, red ones. “So, not someone you’d really know.” 

You open your mouth to retort something, to demand a better answer, but then the laughsassins are there, and you need to snap out of it or they will kill her and she’ll take her secrets with her when she dies. She grins at you, as if she’d know you would do that, and when the guards come forward, she offers her wrists meekly, laughing at a joke you can’t understand. 

She is Terezi in everything – the irony, the blindness, the smile – except the most important thing, which is actually _being_ Terezi at all. 

  


* * *

  


“Out,” Aideen snarls with a quiet, vicious anger that makes the troll standing by your vanity flinch before he remembers himself. He turns around, face eerily blank, to try and stare her down. You feel a flash of amusement as the idea, as the tealblood seems to swell in place, eyes darkening and expression turning homicidal. “You will walk out of this block,” she says, terse and confident, “or I will throw you out feet first.” 

“You do not command me,” he snaps, after a moment, shuffling back against the wall, because he’s a laughasassin and the last thing allowed to him is his pride in his station. 

“But I do,” you say, with a little sigh as you offer Aideen’s triumphant sneer a soft smile. “Please, stand guard outside, if you must.” 

“Go on,” your Head Admin sneers, eyes piercing like an arrow, “stand guard, for all the good it seems to do.” 

Your escort flinches at the venom in her words, yet again, but he says nothing as he goes, trying to cling to the torn flaps of his pride. They have failed you, or at least they feel they have. You had to be extremely specific in how unharmed you needed Terezi’s doppelganger to remain, or else the laughasassins would have taken liberties about it. 

“They’re chastised enough,” you say, once he’s gone, raising your hands in defeat when Aideen reaches out to mess about the bandages you got from your personal doctomurderer, “really.” 

“If they were chastised enough,” the old woman mutters snidely as she tugs about and sets the bandages in a way that keeps them from digging into your gills, for which you’re forever grateful, “they’d be dead and my fans would be a little duller.” 

“ _I_ think they’re chastised enough as it is,” you muse a little wryly, “no need for anyone to die.” 

“Then they’re lucky _you_ are Empress, my dear,” she replies, nodding to herself as she releases you, absently brushing hair off your face. “And not me.” 

You like Aideen Wukong. You like her a lot more after she decided she liked you too. She’s a solid, reliable source of insight and help, whenever you need it. Be it to organize your schedule or your quarters or just to ask for advice. You’re clearly not the first Empress she’s served and entertained, but you like to think she’s come to see you as someone she can care about, personally. You don’t mind if sometimes she’s a little overt in her fussing, and you’ve long stopped worrying if it seems too pale sometimes. You are her duty, and you’ve come to realize there’s nothing more sacred to Aideen Wukong than that. 

So you allow yourself to sigh again, and to let go of the smile tenuously hanging onto your lips, as your fins drop ever so slightly. 

“I think the Empire might be better off with you at the Head than me, sometimes.” 

She doesn’t even bother to look surprised or shocked at all. Instead she snorts and goes about making you tea. She always makes tea when she doesn’t have anything else to do. You’re a little amused by the idea. 

“Nonsense,” she snaps, in a tone that implies you’re quite lacking in the intelligence department. “This Empire has had more than enough Empresses who hate it. The novelty of one that truly loves it hasn’t worn off yet.” 

You let yourself cry a little, laughing behind your hands and Aideen just sits by, letting you lean against her side, saying nothing else. She doesn’t have to. 

  


* * *

  


You wrap your arms around Sollux as tightly as you dare, ignoring the sparks of psionics tickling along your skin. He knows, more than anyone, that you’re okay, but he’s still in shock, in that roundabout, not quite way of his, at the situation. You press your lips against his forehead and his cheeks, humming softly as if to soothe the anger boiling in his veins. 

“We’ll find Terezi,” you promise, “I’ll—“ 

“Already did,” he whispers hoarsely, shaking in your grasp, “we have a problem.” He stares at you with wide, wide eyes and you realize he’s panicking. The notion is so surreal it gives you pause. “Garfit Imoogi is coming. The _Deathfowl_ will be in range in thirty hours or less.” 

You frown, beginning to see where the panic comes from. Ignoring for a moment all the terrible things that could follow in Garfit’s wake, the mere presence of a juggernaut in the Inner Rim could be disastrous. You are fairly certain, after more than a century traveling the length of the Empire, that none of your Lords likes Garfit much. Most of them were unable to hide their relief when Lord Imoogi requested to remain outside court, monitoring the Fringe for you. You appreciate the fact Garfit is more than capable at their job and that the Fringe has not given you problems at all, under their care, but you’re also well aware that they have power over people you’d have thought impossible to control. Kanaya has spent a good deal of time unearthing the history surrounding the Lord of the Fringe, but while facts are scarce, the general consensus is that letting sleeping dragons lie is the best advice, when it comes to the Imoogi in general, and Garfit in particular. 

“Lord Imoogi?” You tilt your head to the side, stepping back to be able to see Sollux’s face entirely, “why?” 

“He knows,” Sollux hisses, baring his teeth like a wounded animal, “ _I don’t know_ _how_ , but the fucking piece of shit _knows_.” He swallows hard, shaking his head. “The _Messiah_ , the _Leviathan_ and the _Morrigan_ are expected to arrive with him.” Sollux looks at you for reassurance, which you suddenly realize are very ill equipped to provide. “They know, too.” 

You had fully intended to bury the incident under a rug and never let it get out of the _Dream Chaser_ ’s crew. It is a dangerous thing, to let the rest of the Empire know you stumbled. That you’re vulnerable. The sheer political ramifications would be unmeasurable, because the Empress is, above all, meant to be untouchable. That someone managed to break the sacred taboo, getting past all your security, will only serve as fuel for those who even now fight against your reforms and consider you weak. You had meant to keep it a secret and deal with the situation on your own, and only let those closest to you know, but only after the situation had been cleared out. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” you whisper, with feeling. 

Sollux breaks down laughing. You trust Garfit, despite it all, to do what’s best for the Empire. But unlike Sollux and Karkat and Equius and Gamzee and even _Vriska_ , you are keenly aware you do not control them. Garfit will do what’s best for the Empire, whether you approve of it or not. The last thing you need is a fight with one of the pillars of the Empire, someone you respect despite Sollux’s misgivings about them, and someone who could very well destroy you, if so they chose to. You might be the Empress, but decades on the throne have taught you that Garfit has been playing this game for far too long, to be outwitted. Most of your seadweller Lords are so much older and more seasoned than you are, but only Garfit has made good on their promise to teach you and help you master all the skills you need to keep the Empire under your heel. You respect them, for better or for worse, and you feel dread at the prospect of the fight that will invariably break out, when they arrive. 

“How did—“ 

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Sollux snaps, red and blue light crackling around him as he snarls. 

You realize, as you step forward to gather him into your arms, that he’s panicking because he’s not used to dealing with surprises anymore. He was upset after the attack, because he was worried about you, but also because he felt responsible. You feel a pang of pure, unadulterated pity, when you consider how he must feel, that after all he’s done to ensure he knows everything that happens in the Empire, and he was still fooled somehow. 

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around him, “Sollux, listen to me, it’s _not_ your fault. No one died and _no one_ will die, I’m going to fix this.” 

“I failed you, I—“ 

You kiss him, then, to put a stop to the river of self-deprecating lies. You kiss him as he tries to pull back, as he kisses back with all he’s got, as he goes pliant and boneless in your arms. You kiss him until he’s purring in the back of his throat, and you can rest his head on your shoulder when you break the kiss. 

“It’s going to be okay.” 

You pack enough certainty and bravado into the words that you almost believe it. 

  


* * *

  


The _Messiah_ is the first ship to arrive. Gamzee looks as monstrous as ever, gangly limbs and bizarre facepaint, but he’s terrifyingly calm and kind when he sees you. He asks about your wounds, eyes clear and smile cruel, but he bows to you in the end and you’re glad to send him back to his ship, to wait for his moirail and the others to arrive. 

The _Leviathan_ and the _Morrigan_ are next to arrive, side by side, just like Karkat and Equius do, when they enter the audience hall. Karkat is livid in that wordless, quiet way of his that means he’s so furious he’s run out of words. He’s at his most dangerous, like this, but it’s exactly what you expected. He informs you of what you already know, more as a courtesy than anything else, and then retires back to the _Leviathan_ to wait. Equius says nothing at all, studying you intently when he thinks you aren’t looking, and then, once Karkat is gone, bows his head and steps back into his ship. The neutral party, you realize, and the thought makes something sit uneasily in your gut. 

Two hours later, the _Deathfowl_ arrives. 

You know your friends. You know their moods and their quirks and that knowledge is the reason why you placed them at the key cornerstones of your Empire. You know exactly what to expect from them, in a reasonable amount of situations. You cannot, however, say anything remotely the same about the Dragon of the Fringe. 

Decades ago, when you first met them, they came to you alone, humble and sympathetic. Today, they bring an entourage that includes, much to your dismay, every single member of their clade and Terezi Pyrope. You feel Sollux, standing by your side, sway in place when he sees her. You find yourself mildly reassured when your friends entering the hall right after Garfit, because at least if it ends in bloodshed you might have a chance to still come out on top. 

“My Lady,” Garfit purrs, coming to stop at the feet of your throne and folding themselves to their knees with a flourish of skirts and fabric. The trolls behind them do the same, though less dramatically. “Would that I could change the circumstances of our meeting, My Lady, but I can’t, so I shan’t.” You brace yourself as they stand up, and then feel something terrible seize up your insides, when their eyes shift to your right. “Lord Sollux Captor, the Imperial Matesprit, you are under arrest for high treason, reckless endangerment of the Empress, callous contempt for the laws of the Empire and pretending you are anything other but a stupid, stupid _child_.” 

You raise a hand to keep Sollux in place, and also remind all the present that he is under your explicit protection. You narrow your eyes as Garfit smiles thinly. That’s not a very promising expression. 

“What is the meaning of this, Lord Imoogi?” 

Sollux starts crackling ominously, but Garfit remains utterly unmoved by the display. 

“You are not the first Empress to be betrayed by a quadrantmate, My Lady,” they say, voice almost kind, “please, step aside and let your faithful servants deal with him. I promise you, it will be just.” 

You open your mouth to retort, but Sollux beats you to it, snarling. 

“Like you give a single fuck about justice, you degenerate piece of—“ 

“Be quiet,” Garfit growls, and behind the veneer of flamboyant mannerisms, you catch a glimpse of a warlord of old, “you reckless, foolish _brat_.” 

“Or what?” Sollux sneers, “you’re going to have me executed?” 

“I can and should,” Garfit snarls back, eyes gleaming with contempt, but it’s their next words that make Sollux flinch, “after the results of your gross incompetence and ill-conceived sense of self-importance have been made clear. But in the spirit of Her Imperious Complacence’s disdain for slaughter, I demand a trial instead. Stand before your peers and justify yourself and your actions, Lord Captor, after what you’ve done, it’s the least you could do.” 

“It’s not his fault,” you snap, stepping forward and forgetting your place for a second, when the reality of the situation fully sinks in, “you can’t possibly blame him for what happened to me, he—“ 

“I can,” Garfit says, expression grim, “because it is his fault. He lied to you.” 

You feel your insides churn angrily when you realize you are the only person in the block that seems surprised at their words. You turn to Sollux, expecting him to debunk Garfit’s nonsense with a snarl of his own, but he will not meet your eyes. No one will, except Garfit, and you don’t like the kindness lurking in there. 

“He did not,” you say, when Sollux remains ominously silent, “he wouldn’t—“ 

“The woman that attacked you is part of an uprising movement that took root in the Fringe,” Garfit explains, with that sickeningly condescending gentleness that makes you ill. “As per my duties to you, I reported them as soon as they were found, but Lord Captor assured me he would take care of it.” They arch an eyebrow, expression disdainful. “As you were unfortunately made aware, he did not.” 

“Like you would have done any better!” Sollux snarls, composure completely gone as he steps forward, lightning curling viciously around his frame. 

“Yes,” Garfit says, eyes narrowed dangerously, voice viciously quiet, “I would have.” They turn their attention entirely towards Sollux, expression murderous. “Three of my children are dead, because of your incompetence and your inability to act as swiftly and decisively as the situation demanded. But perhaps My Lady is right, and the fault is not wholly on you.” They smile, the most unkind smile you’ve ever seen. You feel a ghost of Condesce staring at you in that expression and it makes your insides twist painfully. “The fault is also mine, Captor, for assuming your quadrant proclamations for the Empress were sincere, and that you’d do what honorable trolls do, in your situation, better yourself for the sake of your quadrants. Instead,” their voice doesn’t really raise in volume, but the effect of their tone makes the block feel like it’s growing smaller with each word, “an Empress has _bled_ outside a succession duel for the first time in twenty thousand sweeps, Pyrope ended up an emaciated and half-mad wreck under my care, and Vantas…” They sneer. “Well, I can honestly say I cannot wait to see in what creative way you’ve managed to nearly get _him_ killed.” 

Psionics tear through the floor, making the air feel warm, as blue and red lightning arches over towards Garfit. It never touches them. They eyes glow violet and so do their children’s, still kneeling behind them. The air hums with threat as the entire ship creaks in protest, the stench of burnt ozone spreading around the block like miasma. There’s something almost like a melody, folded in the sound, and it makes your skin crawl and your eyes water, but you find yourself you cannot move, confined to your place as pressure descends over the block, crawling down the walls and onto your back, threatening to break your spine but never quite pushing hard enough. 

“I will not kill you, Lord Captor,” Garfit says, in a low, purring tone that makes it quite clear they would much rather do so, “because unlike you, I loathe to make an Empress cry.” Sollux shrieks, welts opening along his arms and his legs, blood pouring out for a second before that same vicious power sears the wounds shut a moment later. “No matter how much you beg for it, when all it’s said and done, you impertinent, foolish _child_ , I promise you this, you will not find death at my hands.” 

“ _Enough_ ,” you snap, betraying far more anger than you should, clenching your hands into tight fists. “Both of you, enough.” You take a deep breath, trying to force the murderous rage down your throat, but you can’t help but admit seeing Sollux hurt is pushing you to the limits of your patience and your self-control. “I reject the charges against Lord Captor,” you tilt your chin up, but resist the urge to reach out and twine your fingers with him, “he is no more a traitor to the Empire than me.” 

“Please,” Garfit says, oddly sincere, despite the fact their powers recede enough for you to take a deep breath again, without feeling your gills burning, “do not force my hand, My Lady.” 

“I’m not hurt,” you insist, feeling infuriatingly defensive against the calmness of their tone, “so the whole point is moot.” 

“He betrayed you, whether you want to admit it or not, whether he realizes it, or not,” Garfit retorts, voice taking a condescending softness that makes you twitch, “he must pay for it.” 

“With his life?” You sneer, baring your teeth. 

“Ideally,” Garfit bites back, unrepentant, and you take another deep breath to keep your vision from going red with outrage, “but I am a troll of the old ways, and his is a crime committed in the new era. Let him stand trial, let him justify himself among his peers.” 

“There was no crime,” you snarl, stopping short of stomping your foot like a child, and the realization horrifies you. You look into Garfit’s eyes and know they know. You feel something almost like fear, for the first time in forever. “There needs be no trial.” 

“Did you know about the rebels?” Garfit tilts their head to the side, pinning you in place with their eyes. 

The silence weights you down like lead inside your airsacks. 

“No, but—“ 

“Did you know the rebellion has spread over to nearly fourteen sectors since I reported it to Lord Captor?” 

Garfit’s stare dares you to lie. 

“No—“ 

“Did you know Lady Pyrope went missing six perigees ago in the depths of the Fringe and Lord Captor refused my assistance in finding her?” They don’t even let you attempt an answer before pressing forth. “Did you know when the impostor made herself known, I informed Lord Captor that the unrest in the Fringe was degenerating into civil war?” 

“I can’t know everything he does!” You cry, feeling scolded like a petulant child and hating every second of it. “It’s his job to know everything I can’t!” 

“It’s his job to use that knowledge effectively to protect you,” Garfit snaps back, “not to keep you in the dark about the state of affairs in three fourths of the Empire, because the idea that not everyone loves you blindly might upset you. It’s his job to protect you from harm he knows is lurking around you, not coddle you with lies and leave you vulnerable to those unscrupulous enough to break taboo.” 

“You swore fealty to me,” you hiss, but instead of making them back down, the words only make Garfit’s smile widen. “You swore to obey me no matter what.” 

“I swore to do what’s best for you and for the Empire,” Garfit replies, bowing his head respectfully, “no matter what the consequences might be.” 

“And putting my matesprit on trial over an imagined slight is what’s best for me?” You demand, feeling your hands and shoulders shaking with restrained violence. 

"Yes." Garfit smiles at you, in a way that’s almost apologetic. It makes your insides clench. "It is. And if you must force my hand, My Lady, then there’s nothing left for me to do, but declare you, Feferi Peixes, Her Imperious Complacence, unfit to rule for the duration of this trial." 

"You can’t do that,” Sollux hisses over the deadly quiet that echoes in the block, bristling like a venomous, feral thing. 

"They can," Terezi smiles, thin and languid, standing two steps behind them. Sollux sways in place, as if struck, at the sound of her voice. " _Actually_." 

"My dearest lady, you who are closest to my soul," Garfit bows as they speak, staring straight at you to the exclusion of everyone else, and somehow that only makes you feel worse. "I was a Lord, before you gave me Lordship of the Fringe. You just never asked of what. I am Garfit Imoogi, by your grace Warden of the Fringe, yes, but first and foremost, Lord Paramount of the Alternian Empire. And I most regretfully exercise my right—nay, my _duty_ , to the Empire and to you, My Lady, and remove you from the throne until after this unsightly mess has been properly sorted out.” 

The silence is absolute. You don’t remember when you stopped breathing, but you can’t seem to force yourself to start back up again. 

"You can’t,” Sollux snaps back, static curling viciously around him as he sneers. “You need three Lords to second your motion.” He looks almost manic in his delight, strangely unhinged in a way you can’t quite pin down. “You need—” 

You are too dumbstruck by the unreality of the situation to do anything else but stare. 

"Three Lords," Terezi smiles grimly, "or two Lords and a Lady. I, Lady Terezi Pyrope, Mistress of the Tyranny Court, second the motion." 

Sollux is too busy being taken aback to do much when Gamzee steps forth, giggling in the back of his throat. 

"I, Lord Gamzee Makara, Grand Highblood of the Motherfucking Subjugglator Faithful, second the motion." 

Karkat refuses to look at Sollux in the eye when he steps forth, instead staring at you with an intensity you are too shaken to decipher. 

"I, Lord Karkat Vantas, High Chancellor of Alternia and All Its Fleet, second the motion." 

Imoogi folds themself elegantly on the floor, kneeling before you in a way that makes you oddly certain they regret what they’ve done, but will see it through because they must. Try as you might, you can’t quite bring yourself to hate them. You are too busy reeling to really bother with anything as complex as contempt. 

"Please, Your Imperial Highness, forgive your most faithful servants and allow them to keep your hands clean of this affair." 

You have a choice, now. They wait in silence, heads bowed respectfully despite the enormity of what they’ve done. Because you could choose to fight. You could choose to reject them. But you wouldn’t get very far, without them. And you don’t _want_ to fight them. You don’t want to impose your will on this because you’re beginning to realize there’s no clear answer and no easy solution to what has happened. 

You’ve forced Garfit’s hand, and now they’ve forced yours in turn. 

"Until the end of the trial," you say, voice smooth like steel. You refuse to look at Sollux and see the betrayal in his eyes as you reach to pull the crown off your head. "And not a second longer." 

You fling it at Garfit, and it bounces off their chest and onto the floor with a dull clatter. You don’t look back as you stalk out of the audience block, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, because the alternative is to crumple down into a sobbing, wailing mess. 

  


* * *

  


The _Morrigan_ is chosen as the stage for the trial, as Equius was not one of the Lords who supported Garfit’s bid to remove you from the throne, and his ship is the closest to neutral ground at your disposal. Sollux has been placed in the depths of the _Deathfowl_ , taken from you while you stepped back and refused to say a word. You cannot, not without the voice of the Empress in your throat. You are little more than a honored prisoner in the depths of the _Dream Chaser_ , destitute and furious and unable to figure out how to fix it. 

“If you really want to be angry at someone, you can start by being angry at me.” The cup slips from your fingers at the voice, and you turn around to find your moirail sitting on your dresser, one leg folded over the other, hands leaning on the lacquered wood. “I was the one who brought Astrea here in the first place.” You stare a little. Aradia smiles. “The girl that tried to skewer you with a cane. Terezi’s descendant.” She pauses for a moment. “Though, in a way, you could say she’s also Vriska’s.” 

You take a deep breath and then bend down to pick up the pieces of shattered pottery to give yourself time to sort out your thoughts. You love Aradia, you really do, but you also know her better than you think any troll should. She’s always there, when you really need her support, but she’s also there, when everything goes wrong. She’s your greatest ally and your greatest enemy, all at once, and it wouldn’t be so terrible if you didn’t feel an overwhelming pulse of pale throb down your heart whenever you see her. 

You know who she is, what she serves. You feel a strange yearning for the whispers always humming around her, a nostalgia that borders on homesickness sometimes. It’s not the same, but she makes you feel as safe as your lusus did, when you were a little girl. That dark, welcoming pulse of power swirling on her skin, turning into an ageless, wordless song that hides the truth about everything within its notes. 

“I know better by now,” you sigh, placing the remnants of your cup on the table, before turning to face her, “than trying to be angry at you.” Despite it all, you’re a troll, and your feelings aren’t reasonable, no matter how much you think about them. “Why?” 

“Because you need to learn,” she says, swinging her feet, “if you want to survive what’s coming.” 

You ponder her words for a moment. She’s never straightforward, and you wouldn’t trust her to tell you the truth, if she were. She gives out wisdom and advice drop by drop, always acting as a catalyst for the decisions that you make, always letting you find the consequences of your actions first hand. You reach out to wrap your arms around her, buying your face into her neck, and shiver as the buzz of power always leaking from her pores makes static crackle against your skin. 

“It’s going to get worse,” you whisper, only a question in the most abstract sense, “isn’t it?” 

“It always does,” Aradia giggles, reaching to pat your head and finger your hair, claws scratching gently against the nape of your neck, “before it gets better.” 

“So it _will_ get better,” you press, because you can’t help yourself, “in the end.” 

She pulls back enough to tilt your chin up with her hand and then presses a sweet kiss to your forehead. 

“If you make it so, it will.” 

A lesser troll would find comfort in her words. Instead, because you know her and love her for who she is, you understand the weight of duty settling on your shoulders. 

“I’ll make it right,” you promise, smiling and leaning in to kiss her mouth instead. 

She kisses back with a laugh, and her arms tighten around you for a moment, before she melts away into the shadows, gone to do things you know better than to think about. You lean against the dresser, staring at your reflection in the mirror, trying to recognize yourself. The real danger, Aradia told you once, was the fact one day you might not be able to. 

One day you might find Condesce staring back at you, and that’s why you can’t afford to not fight back. 

  


* * *

  


“You just need to say the word.” 

You look up from your desk to find Nepeta sprawled comfortably in an armchair by the door, one leg hooked on the armrest and hands folded neatly over her belly. You take a moment to wonder how exactly she got in without raising an alarm throughout the ship, purely out of habit, because you know better than to imagine you might figure out the answer. Nepeta goes where Nepeta wants to go, unseen and untroubled by banal things like physics and laws. You don’t generally care, because what Nepeta wants is almost always aligned with what you want, and you’re not naïve enough now, to not realize her actions have probably saved your life, more than once. 

“Just say the word,” she insists, smiling at you under the shadow of her hood, “and I’ll deal with it.” 

You don’t think Nepeta cares much about politics, but a Huntress of her caliber might be tempted by the idea of a dragon for prey. You don’t know who would win, in that fight, but you know better than to try and find out. You need Nepeta and you need Garfit, and what you _don’t_ need is to add yet another layer of hostility to the whole affair. You don’t have your rank, at the moment, though everyone knows it’s only temporary and they know damn well their actions right now will have consequences as soon as you get it back. But anything you do without a rank would be a betrayal of the law, and deep down you know better. 

_You know better._

Condesce made the law bend and twist to suit her fancy, because she could. You’re not Condesce. You’ve spent the last century and a half fighting to not be Condesce. You believe in the Law and the Truth, that all trolls will one day find themselves standing on equal ground, that there’s more to their lives than being miserable pieces that articulate the monstrous machinery of the Empire. You’ve fought prejudice and war and faithlessness, from the bottom to the very top of the ranks, because you know in your heart that the only way to make things better is to give them law. True law, law that makes sense and works to protect them, all of them, not just the ones sitting at the very top. If you want your actions to have meaning, if you want your law to survive the test of time, then you need to bite your tongue and still your hand, and let things play out as they must, lawfully. 

“No,” you lick your lips, then shake your head. “No, that’s not the solution.” 

“It’s _a_ solution,” Nepeta muses with a shrug, and the wryness in her tone makes you smile. “Pretty effective one, if you ask me.” 

“But not the solution _I_ want,” you insist, “so let things be.” You pause and then add, almost tentatively, “please.” 

Nepeta looks at you for a long moment, not really saying anything. Then she sighs and melts into the chair, boneless. You let out a breath you weren’t really aware you were holding. You know, better than anyone else, that you do not control Nepeta. Most of the time, you just ask politely and hope for the best, because you know by now that’s the best you’re going to get. Sometimes she doesn’t listen, despite how much you try to make her see your way. Sometimes she does things you’d yell at people for, and you know there’s really nothing you can do about it. 

You dearly hope this isn’t one of those times. 

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she purrs after a moment, bouncing her left foot playfully. “No hard feelings.” 

“I won’t.” You let out a soft sigh, sagging into a chair. “No hard feelings,” you add, with a soft smile. You shake your head. “But maybe tea?” 

Nepeta grins mischievously, and you dare hope that means there really are no hard feelings between you. 

“Only if it’s the good stuff.” 

  


* * *

  


When you enter your study – you refuse to call it an office, because that sounds formal and boring, and you like to think this little pocket of peace is too nice to be tainted that way – you find an Imoogi standing by the wall, studying a painting Shisah Bastet gave you for your wiggling day a couple decades back. You’re not sure which one he is, which would normally embarrass you, but you’re not feeling very charitable, as far as his clade goes, so you choose not to waste your worry on him. He’s dressed in impeccable white, short hair properly groomed and styled almost as stiff as his posture. He bows politely when he sees you, though not excessively. You suppose he doesn’t have to, considering you’re not, for the moment, the Empress. 

“Yes?” You ask, in lieu of anything more cordial to say, holding your hands in front of you, so you resist the urge to clench them into fists. 

“My Lady,” he inclines his head again, then stands up straight, not tense, you think, more like coiled, like a spring. “I am Cadmus, Lord Imoogi’s heir.” He pauses, as if letting the knowledge sink in. Ordinarily you would be more concerned about it, but you’re honestly not in the mood, and you think your expression shows it. His lips twitch. “I am here, because I do believe you might harbor some… misconceptions, as to what Lord Imoogi might have said, in the heat of the moment.” 

You take a deep breath and release it slowly, before walking over to your desk and sitting down purposefully. Cadmus Imoogi, one of the two currently living in Karkat’s ship, then. The one Karkat likes less, too, given he’s the one that meddles the most about his business. This is not going to be a very pleasant chat, you realize, and offer him a paper thin smile that says as much. 

“By all means,” you say, unable to keep a layer of sarcasm off your voice, “do enlighten me, Cadmus.” 

He’s not a Lord – not yet anyway, not as long as Garfit is still alive, because there can only be one Lord Imoogi in the Empire, and aren’t you so fucking glad – and you don’t afford him any courtesies he doesn’t deserve. You’re being rude, addressing him by name, rather than title – though you’re not quite sure he _has_ one – but he deserves no better, barging into your studio like this. You relish in his sour expression, even though from what Karkat’s told you, that’s the only one he has. 

“It is true three of my brothers died, as a direct consequence of Lord Captor’s actions, or rather, his inaction, in this case.” He levels you with a piercing stare, refusing to sit down. You wonder if he’d have, if you had offered, but you don’t feel magnanimous enough to try. “Sadly, I believe Lord Imoogi might have phrased this fact… poorly, when they brought it up during their audience with you.” 

“Three of my children are dead because of your ineptitude,” you say, voice flat. “I believe those were their exact words?” 

“Incompetence,” he corrects, “actually.” 

“I do not pretend to know Lord Imoogi’s bond with you, or your brothers,” you reply, refusing to raise to the bait, “but I understand it is different from a quadrant though no less personal. They care deeply about you, and the loss of your brothers could not have been a gentle blow.” You lick your lips, narrowing your eyes. “However—“ 

"You misunderstand," Cadmus drawls, because, you remember dimly Karkat complaining loudly about this, Cadmus _always_ drawls. You’re mildly taken aback by the fact he’d actually _interrupt_ you. “There is nothing… soft, at the core of Lord Imoogi’s anger. Or my own, for that matter.” His shrug is less a shrug and more just the implication of one, shoulders not quite moving as he snorts. “Lord Imoogi is not angry because my brothers are dead. They died serving their duty, and that is the highest reward one of my blood can aspire to.” He tilts his head back, not quite arrogantly, but certainly disdainful. “Lord Imoogi is angry because there was no need for them to die, and they would have served you better alive, than dead. We serve the Empire, milady, and you are the Empire for as long as you wear that crown. If we were more useful to you dead than alive, we would walk towards it with a smile. Garfit Imoogi is the Dragon Lord, feelings have no hold over them, any more than they should have a hold on you.” He bows his head, but rather than be servile, the gesture lets you know he finds you lacking. “An Empress that cannot rule will not remain an Empress for long.” 

You have the sudden, pressing urge to stab him in the face, and yet, you can’t help but feel that would only prove his point. It wouldn’t help anything, either, except make you feel better for a little while, and you’re sure there are less damning things out there you could indulge in, than pettily murdering Lord Imoogi’s heir. 

Even if he does so have a very murderable face. 

“Get out,” you say, voice soft and deadly as you stare at him in the eye. “Now.” 

He has the nerve to bow again, before he does. 

  


* * *

  


The slap echoes in the room almost ominously. 

“I deserved that,” Karkat muses almost wryly, looking up at you with a tired smile. 

You slap him again, for good measure. 

“Okay, that one too.” He steps back, hands raised slightly as you prepare a third one. “I’m retaliating at the third one, though.” 

You stare at him for a moment before huffing in annoyance and stomping over to your favorite chair. 

“I’m _angry_ at you,” you hiss, folding your legs up to curl in the chair, looking at him over the corner of your eye. 

“Join the club,” Karkat laughs, hollow, and goes sit on his usual chair, “I’m angry at me.” 

“Well good,” you sulk, wrapping your arms around your legs, “what _the hell_ , Karkat?” 

“You don’t understand—“ 

“Apparently!” 

“—how much I didn’t want to do that,” he goes on, ignoring your outburst politely. “I really, really didn’t want to do that.” 

You stare at him for a moment, studying him carefully. He’s grown a lot, since the days he used to be a scrawny kid. He might not be the largest troll around, but he usually fills a room with his presence alone without a problem. Right now, though, he looks just as tired and as lost as he did, all those sweeps ago, when he sliced open his palm and let you all see him for what he was. You feel a stab of annoyance when your first instinct, despite it all, is to reach out and ask what’s wrong. Then you feel another one, because Karkat is your friend and you shouldn’t be annoyed at yourself for worrying about his wellbeing. 

Then again, he shouldn’t have annoyed you by essentially betraying you. 

The core of the problem is that you like Karkat. You like Karkat a lot! He’s reliable and responsible and so full of goodness you’re pretty sure the loudness and the temper is a cosmic balancing measure because otherwise he’d be the messiah the cults say he is. He’s kind and thoughtful and as in love with your ideals as you are, always willing to go down the road of revolution and peace with you, every step of the way. You know you couldn’t do what you want to do without Karkat there to help you shoulder the burden. And until now, you’d always thought you could trust him without question, because no matter what, he always ends up doing what you would, in any given situation. 

Except now, because you still refuse to think of any situation where threatening Sollux like this would be the right course of action. 

“Sollux could die,” you whisper, even if you know he couldn’t, not quite, not with what he’s done to himself. 

“No,” Karkat snaps, firm despite it all, staring at you defiantly. “Imoogi gave their word.” 

“And you _believe_ them?” You snarl, defensive and irrational and too angry to really care about it. 

Karkat looks at you in the eye and swallows hard. 

“Yeah,” he lowers his gaze to his own hands, “yeah, I do.” 

“ _Why?_ ” You didn’t mean the question to come out as desperate as it did. But you really do want to understand, somehow, this great truth everyone but you seems to be certain of. “Why would you take their word over Sollux’s?” 

“Because Sollux is an arrogant, hateful liar,” Karkat whispers, pressing his hands on his face, as if he could shove the words back up his throat that way, “and Imoogi is an arrogant, manipulative shithead that is downright obsessive about keeping us but mostly you safe.” 

“Sollux didn’t—“ 

“ _He did_ ,” Karkat snarls, slamming his fist on the small table next to his chair, rattling the teacup there. “He lied to you, and he lied to me, and he lied to everyone, and he fucked up, so now he has to face the music.” He turns to glare at the ceiling. “And he’s listening to this and seething and trying to justify his fuckery, but _he fucked up_.” 

“No one died,” you mutter, somewhat sullen. 

Karkat stares at you with something cutting like disappointment in his eyes. 

“You know that’s not true,” he says, voice low, “and you know better than to lie to yourself.” 

“Then he had a reason for it,” you say, far more shrilly than you’d have liked your voice to sound. “We’re not six anymore, Karkat. He’s not a child. None of us are. We lie and scheme and get people killed all the time. We don’t do it because we like it, we do it because someone has to. Sollux, most of all, knows what we’ve sacrificed for the Empire.” 

“Feferi.” 

You take a deep breath and let it out as a growl. Then you take another one, and another one, until you’re no longer snarling under your breath. You’re _angry_. Angry at him for supporting Garfit. Angry at Garfit for being so presumptuous. Angry at yourself for not knowing how to resist this. Angry at the world for putting you in this situation. 

“He must have had a reason,” you insist, absolutely hating the way your tone sounds petulant and childish. 

“We make mistakes,” Karkat says, in that soothing voice of his that makes you growl in annoyance. “We all make mistakes, we all fuck up royally sometimes. We’re just trolls, Feferi, we can’t help making mistakes every now and then.” You open your mouth to say something rather unfortunate. “But we can’t fix those mistakes if we’re not willing to admit mistakes were made in the first place.” 

“I know that,” you reply, quietly, through tightly clenched teeth. “I don’t know why all this was necessary.” 

“You know how Sollux is,” Karkat sighs, smiling faintly. “It will be alright, in the end. The trial is mostly Imoogi’s excuse to bring him a notch down or two. Garfit might be an asshole, but they’re on our side.” 

“Supposedly,” you mutter, just because you’re not willing to let it go just yet, not until it all blows over and it really is alright. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Karkat promises, in that obnoxiously conciliatory way of his. 

Then he goes over to serve tea, because it’s not really a chat with Karkat without tea involved. He rummages around with familiarity, and you have to actually resist the urge to relax when he brings over a cup for you, before plopping back down in his chair. 

“Tell me something,” you say after a moment, stirring the tea, “did you and the others do this because you thought I would just… let it happen?” 

“No,” Karkat laughs a little awkwardly. “Of course not.” He licks his lips and refuses to meet your eyes. “We did this fully expecting retribution, once it’s all said and done. I’m pretty sure Imoogi is going to offer you their head for this.” 

“So you knew I wouldn’t be happy about it,” you muse, taking a sip before balancing the cup on your knees. “You knew I was going to be furious and do something about it, after I get my rank back. So why not just talk to me?” 

“Because you wouldn’t have listened,” Karkat shrugs, and it hurts a little, how sure of himself he sounds. “You never listen, when it comes to Sollux. Admittedly, neither do I.” He smiles thinly. “Cadmus had to use Eridan to get through to me about this, and I’m pretty sure Eridan didn’t even know he was being used, the poor sod.” 

“That’s—“ 

“We’re trolls, we fuck up sometimes,” Karkat leans back against the chair, holding onto his cup so tightly you half expect him to break it. “The people we trust the most are trolls too, and they can and do fuck up sometimes, too. We’d just rather not think about it.” 

“I miss the coup,” you sigh, smiling despite it all. “Back then it didn’t hurt when you talked sense into me.” 

“I miss when talking sense into you didn’t hurt you.” 

“We were really, really stupid, when we were kids, weren’t we?” You chuckle wryly, staring at the bottom of your cup as if it held the answers to all your problems. 

“Yeah,” Karkat shrugs, expression earnest. “I don’t regret it though. We’ve done good things, despite it all.” 

You tilt back the rest of the tea. Then you stand up and go leave the cup at the table, not turning to look at Karkat, because you don’t trust your voice not to break if you do. 

“I’m not going to thank you for this,” you say, standing tall and staring straight at the wall. “Not right now, anyway. I might, when this is over, and perspective makes me realize what an idiot I’ve been, lately. But I can’t, right now. And I know you trust Imoogi not to get Sollux killed, and usually I would trust them too, but you took away my throne for me, and right now it doesn’t feel for the best.” 

“I’m sorry,” Karkat replies, sincere and humbled, “I—“ 

“Please go, Chancellor,” you shake your head slowly, not sure how much more apologizing you can take, “I have a lot to think about.” 

You’re inordinately grateful when he doesn’t say anything else, instead leaving the room in silence. Going over his words in your head, you can’t help laughing somewhat bitterly at the whole thing. 

  


* * *

  


You narrow your eyes as you watch one of the Imoogi talking quietly with Aideen, smiling kindly at her and telling her things that make her smile. It feels like betrayal, somehow, and you hate yourself because part of you is aware how irrational the paranoia feels, and the rest of you is angry because it’s precisely that lack of paranoia landed you in the middle of a situation where your closest friends checkmated you out of the throne, if only temporarily. You stand back at the corner where the corridor meets another, waiting, until Imoogi turns away, walking with a small slouch, hands in his pockets. 

“Imoogi,” you say, as you purposely walk out to meet him, expression firm and cautious, ironic smile hanging from your lips. 

"My Empress honors me," he says, bowing in the old way, which only seadwellers bother with anymore. You catch a glimmer of metal in his skull, and it makes the smile freeze on your lips. "I wouldn’t suppose you know who I am, after all." 

"One of Lord Imoogi’s children," you say, in tone of a jest, to try and shake off the ludicrous idea tugging at your pan, but it seems to have been a joke in very poor taste because there’s a curious tilt of lips flashing in his face before he laughs. "I suppose." 

"Hardly the one they are the most proud of, yes," he smiles kindly, though. Far more kindly than you’ve seen any of their clade do. "You’ve been speaking with my brother.” His smile wanes somewhat. “The heir,” he clarifies, as if it’d make a difference right now. 

"I’ve been speaking with far too many people, to be honest," you admit, with a little wry smile. "But yes, I do believe I have." 

"Don’t mind him," he snorts, waving a hand dismissingly. "Cadmus is loyal and trustworthy, but he might be ill if he’s forced to smile. Please don’t take offense at his painful lack of wit. Lord Imoogi takes enough offense at his painful lack of manners, as it is." 

You find yourself grinning wryly at that, shaking your head somewhat. 

"If they’ve made him their heir, I wouldn’t imagine they take much offense," you tease, and realize you’re teasing, all too late for you to take it back. 

It’s dangerous, playing games with this clade. You’re literally caught in the middle of a glorious example of how dangerous it is, to play with Dragons. But your mystery Imoogi doesn’t seem to mind at all, instead chuckling and grinning with all his teeth. There’s a strange quality about him, how he carries himself and how he smiles so easily, that somehow manages to dampen your defensiveness a little. There’s none of the arrogance and self-assured confidence in this one, that makes your teeth set on edge, whenever you’re around Lord Imoogi, or that made you twitch murderously under Cadmus’ tirade. 

“My brother is very competent in many things,” he muses with a smirk, “chief among them being a bastard. I’m sorry you had to deal with him, and I’m sorry I have to apologize on his behalf, My Empress, because I know all too well he’ll never apologize on his own.” 

You ponder his words for a moment, before a softer smile tugs at your lips, almost against your will. 

“You’re Arthur, aren’t you?” 

He bows down again, lower this time, and you can see clearly, the metal rings grafted at the back of his skull and down his neck. Something cold and screaming sits at the pit of your stomach, as you realize what those rings mean, exactly. When he looks up again, his expression is unbearably kind. 

“My Empress honors me yet again, by knowing my name.” His smile softens even more. “Arthur Imoogi, core propulsion Helmsman of the class B Imperial Battle Cruiser, _Leviathan_ , at your service.” 

Irrationally, the first thing that comes to your lips is: “I’m no one’s Empress, right now.” 

“A title and politics don’t make you an Empress,” Arthur says, with enough certainty behind his words to make you stare. “You are the Empress, because it is an intrinsic part of who you are. To imply otherwise would be a gross insult against your dignity.” 

“So my blood makes me an Empress?” You press, one eyebrow arched, and find yourself surprised when he laughs. 

“Of course not,” he shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets, “your kindness and your strength make you an Empress. My Empress. You mustn’t forget, no matter what, there are those of us still left, that would follow you despite the lack of a title or a wall of politics saying we shouldn’t. You are the Empress, in the end, your word is absolute.” 

“Is that so?” You tilt your head to the side, refusing to let his charm and his words get to you, because you’ve learned painfully that not everyone is who they say they are. “Then tell me why you’re here.” 

“I was delivering a message,” he replies, candid, “and an invitation. The Psiioniic doesn’t want to come aboard if he can help it, but he’d like to talk with Admin Wukong if possible.” He gives you a conspiratorial smile, chuckling. “I think they’re friends, for all they’d rather no one knew.” 

“I wouldn’t have pegged an Imoogi as a messenger,” you say, somewhat snide. 

Arthur shrugs again, smile melting into a grin. 

“Neither would my ancestor peg one of us as a helmsman,” he says, laughter in his eyes, “but life is funny that way.” 

You concede the point reluctantly, humming. You’re overly cautious and defensive, given the situation, but you can’t help but feel you’d have liked to meet this man, under different circumstances. And the budding paranoia in your mind points out perhaps it’s best you didn’t, lest you got yourself embroiled in another conspiracy. You dislike it, though, the bitterness under your tongue, the painful realization that you can’t trust anyone blindly, no matter how much you’d like to. 

“You say I’m your Empress,” you scowl after a moment, tilting your head back to loom slightly over him, “that you’d follow me no matter what. But I don’t remember you speaking against your Ancestor in the audience hall.” 

Arthur tilts his head to the side, studying you, but rather than look chastised, he smiles. 

“I didn’t,” he admits without guilt, “because it wouldn’t have changed anything, and because despite it all, I believe Lord Imoogi is acting in your best interests.” He licks his lips, expression wry. “They always do, even when it doesn’t seem that way.” 

“So I’ve been told,” you scoff, and fold your arms over your chest before you can think about how defensive it must look, how petulant. 

"If I may be so bold?" Arthur arches an eyebrow and you find yourself echoing the gesture. He snorts. "I’d say my Empress knows not the dragons in her den." His grin softens, somewhat. "Would you like to know about them? About my brothers and my Lord? They don’t wish you ill, however much they might be hurting you, right now. Lord Imoogi is a dragon like they have been few, in service of an Empress. They only know to love like dragons do, which is by burning until all that’s left of their loved ones are the blackened, hardened cores. They mean well, but that doesn’t make their love less scorching." His smile wanes by degrees. "You just learn to live long enough to endure it, or find a way to escape it." He tilts his head to the side. "But my Empress would not run, I think. So let me tell you about my brothers, and how to endure the love they left behind." 

“You ran,” you say, almost mystified by the concept. “You ran from the Fringe and Lord Imoogi.” 

“And into the deepest bowels of a ship,” he says, still grinning. “Yes, I ran, because I’m not a Lord and I will never be a Lord, and Lord Imoogi loves me too much to be kind enough to call me a failure.” 

You’re quiet for a long moment, thinking. You decide to take the metaphorical hand, to trust him, just a little. Because it’s in your nature to trust others, and you refuse to let anyone, even those who claim to love you and want what’s best for you, change such a fundamental part of who you are. Maybe it’ll hurt, in the long run, maybe it’ll give you grief for the rest of your life, but it’d be better, you reckon, than betraying who you are. 

“I’d love to hear about your brothers,” you smile, sincere for the first time in what feels like forever, “and about you too.” 

  


* * *

  


“I’m angry at you, you know.” 

Gamzee shrugs unrepentantly, plopping on the floor because there’s literally nothing in the block big enough to accommodate him. You think he likes it that way, anyway, so you’ve never bothered to get him his own chair. 

“A sister is all welcome to get her raging on if she needs to,” he says, grinning. “It was a delightfully shitty thing we up and got done, me and the others.” 

You’re not quite sure what possessed you to ask Gamzee for an audience. You know better than trying to get through to him with words. The only one that can ever talk sense into Gamzee is Karkat, and you doubt Karkat would talk him into revoking his support for Imoogi. If you’re really honest with yourself, you know it wouldn’t change a thing, if you did manage to get him to go back on his word, but part of you wants to know _why_. Everyone you’ve talked to about this mess has been so… reasonable. You understand where they come from, but you still can’t bring yourself to forgive them for it. The fact that Sollux has made absolutely no effort to contact you, despite the fact you know he can damn well do it no matter where they lock him up, only makes you angrier. 

You’re tired of feeling angry. 

You’re tired of the shapeless, weightless rage boiling in your gut, screaming constantly in the back of your mind. You’re tired of feeling paranoid and helpless, when you sit in your block and brush your hair for lack of anything else to do, and you’re tired of feeling foolish and childish, when you reach out and try to find those bridges of trust you were always so certain where there to catch you if you fell. Terezi refused your summons and you’re not sure it’d be a good idea to compromise Equius’ neutrality in the trial by contact him directly. You are too angry to talk to Lord Imoogi directly, either, and that means the only other source of information you have available is Gamzee. 

And he’s, well, Gamzee. 

“You’ve never told me,” you say, after a moment, realizing what a stupid, stupid mistake this was, “if you think I’m a good Empress.” 

Gamzee looks at you seriously, for a moment, without the mocking mirth twisting his face into a macabre grin. He looks at you with clear, shrewd eyes, like the monster you know he is, and then he breaks down laughing hysterically, throwing his head back as he roars in mirth. 

“You’re still motherfucking alive, aren’t you?” He cackles, in between honks. 

You smile thinly back at him, and suppose that’s as good an answer as any. 

  


* * *

  


You wake up with someone shaking you roughly and sloshing sopor everywhere. Halfway through stepping out of the recuperacoon, just as a towel is placed on your shoulders, you realize exactly who is it in your respiteblock and you can’t help but stare. Terezi wipes most of the sopor off your shoulders as the Imoogi offers her a robe that you let her put on your shoulders almost on reflex. 

“What the—“ 

"Technically, I’m kidnapping you," the man grins, and the scar across his eye wrinkles up with mirth as he does. "Now if anyone, but mostly Lord Imoogi, asks, you disarmed me in a fierce battle and forced me to do this, culling fork pointed at my gills." 

You blink a little, then look down at your hands, which are very much empty, then back at him with a squint. Terezi chokes back on a giggle. 

"But I don’t even have a culling fork at hand right now," you say, feeling supremely stupid before blinking as Terezi bites into her palm to keep her cackling in check. 

"…why wouldn’t you have a weapon at hand at all times, I mean, you just got almost assassinated last week, for fuck’s sake, how are you—" 

"The point, Glydan," Terezi scoffs, rolling her eyes as she slams her elbow into his sides, and you wince a bit sympathetically because that was right on the gills, too. "Get to it." 

“Anyway,” he snorts, rolling his eye with a flourish, “change of plans, then. Bony McFuckYouBonehead here beat me in a terribly majestic duel of fabulousness and forced me to find you and take you along, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” 

"Take me along where?” You wonder, not quite defensively. 

"To see your matesprit," the Imoogi – Glydan, you suppose – says in a tone that leaves the finishing ‘ _duh’_ perfectly implied. 

"But Lord Imoogi said—" 

"Yes," and he grins with all his teeth, in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of Terezi in very alarming ways, "and he explicitly told me to keep you, Lady Pyrope and Lord Vantas as far away from Lord Captor as possible." You stare at him, waiting for the follow-up to that statement, since that hardly constitutes a logical explanation for what he’s doing. "And I’m a pirate, My Lady, if you tell me not to do something, I will kill myself trying to do it, out of spite." 

"Charming, isn’t he?" Terezi grins at you, patting his arm. "I’m almost inclined to believe him, when he says there’s a method to his madness." 

"Do you want to see Captor or not?" He snaps, a little defensively. 

“ _Yes_ ,” you blurt out, far more desperate than you’d have preferred, before Terezi can say anything else. You feel yourself blush slightly. “Yes, please.” 

Glydan stares at you, blinking slowly. 

"…an Empress with actual manners," he mutters, shaking his head, "okay, so maybe Denzel had a point and the universe _is_ ending after all.” 

Finally, the grasp of sopor on your mind lessens enough you can take stock of the situation. You pull the robe a little tighter around your body, feeling mildly scandalized by being manhandled out of your own damn recuperacoon like that. You thin your lips and scowl. 

“I’m not going anywhere, though,” you say, sliding a pair of shoes even as you speak, “until someone explains what’s going on.” 

“We’re going to see Sollux,” Terezi says, shrugging. “Would have done so sooner, but we had… issues to sort out.” 

“Rigging the trial,” Glydan snorts, “mostly.” 

Terezi elbows him in the gills again, and you feel a small, vindictive burst of pleasure at the sight of him groaning in pain. 

“Ensuring there will be no foul play during the trial,” Terezi corrects acidly, sniffing with disdain in his general direction. 

“Foul play is the cornerstone of Alternian justice,” Glydan shoots back with a smirk, “so yes, rigging the trial.” 

“You wanted to see me,” Terezi goes on, shrugging and refusing to acknowledge his words, “anyway. And I know you want to see Sollux, too. It’s more efficient, this way.” 

You stand there for a moment, staring at her and then at him, and then snort snidely. 

“You just don’t want to face him alone, after you supported Imoogi’s charges against him.” 

Glydan stares at you in fascination, with something that looks suspiciously like newborn devotion gleaming in his eye. You ignore him, in favor of giving Terezi a challenging look. 

“Yes,” she admits easily, shrugging, “no more than you want to face him alone, after you stepped back and let Imoogi arrest him.” 

You can’t help but snarl at that, eyes all but glowing with contempt. Glydan clears his throat. 

“Girls, you’re both pretty and treacherous and shit,” he snorts, “but we have ten minutes to get to the _Deathfowl_ , or this dashing plan of mine will go to shit. Walking now, furious blame shifting later.” 

You shake your head, but follow, in the end, because you do need to see Sollux rather desperately, and starting a grudge with Terezi can wait until you’ve ascertained if you’re still quadrantcorners in the first place. 

  


* * *

  


“I _am_ a Lord, you know,” Sollux says, mockingly, as he motions the luxurious block that’s been serving as a cell, “and of course Lord Imoogi is a Lord of the old ways, as he said, he couldn’t bear to mistreat me, it’d reflect poorly on him.” 

“They,” you correct absently on reflex, and feel a wordless emotion throb through your body as Sollux’s smile widens slightly. 

“ _Whatever_ ,” he says, going to sit on the corner of a desk, “the actual gender of the bastard does not change the fact the massiveness of their bastardness.” 

You bark a laugh at that, then slap your hands over your mouth to cage the sound in. You feel like you haven’t laughed in forever, and it feels good. You don’t want to ever forget what laughing feels like. 

“You’re being petty,” you mutter, shaking your head and going over to sit next to him. 

“I know,” he smirks, “TZ thinks it’s cute.” 

“Terezi’s lied to you,” you snort, shoving your shoulder into his playfully, hopefully. 

“And I lied to you,” he whispers, not returning the gesture and abruptly sinking the block in a dark mood. 

“Sollux—“ 

“I _lied_ to you.” You startle at the sharpness of his voice. “I lied, about the Pyrope girl and the rebellion in the Fringe and a million other things. I’ve lied to you, every step of the way, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

You open your mouth to dismiss his concerns and stop short when you realize that’s precisely what’s got you in this mess in the first place. Karkat’s words echo in your skull as you lick your lips instead and take a deep breath, trying to keep calm. Sollux looks miserable and all you really want to do is reach out and hug him and promise him it doesn’t matter and everything will be alright. But the truth is that this matters and it will not be alright unless you make it that way. You take another deep breath and allow yourself to feel just a tiny bit of that anger, enough to direct it at him. Because you have a lot of reasons to be angry at him, specifically, and you’ve been carefully shoving that anger onto everyone else _but_ him. 

“Why?” You ask, voice soft, because as much as you want to explode, you know yelling will not get you anywhere. 

“Because it didn’t seem important, at first,” Sollux slumps back, pressing his hands against his face. “Because there’s just… so much dumb shit floating around, all the time. It seemed stupid to put that burden on you. I thought it was for the best, at first, if you concentrated on what really mattered.” You keep quiet, wanting to listen, to get the whole story before you even start figuring out how to react. It’s hard, though. It’s probably one of the hardest things you’ve ever done in your life, standing here, listening to this. “And then it got worse, it always gets fucking _worse_. And then I just…” 

You wait three breaths before arching an eyebrow. 

“Just what? Thought I’d be mad?” You smile hollowly when he flinches. “Thought I’d lash out? Thought I’d become _Condesce_?” 

“No!” Sollux looks at you wide eyed, sparkling red and blue as he jerks forward to his feet, swaying a little. “No, I—“ 

“You _what?_ ” 

“I thought you wouldn’t be able to take it!” He snarls viciously, then immediately falls back, cowering somewhat as you stand there, gaping. “You don’t know what it was like, in the wake of the reforms. Every step of the way, they’d just _complain more_.” He spits out the words with a good dose of contempt in his voice. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Sollux sound like that before. “Trolls are just the most fucking ungrateful shitstains imaginable, FF, you don’t _understand_.” 

“Clearly!” You snarl back, sarcastically. “Especially since it seems I never knew enough to understand!” 

“They’ve been fighting back every step of the way! You’re making things better and they keep expecting the other shoe to drop!” He looks at you with a wounded sort of despair, and you realize how much this has been weighing on him, how long he must have been festering this kind of hatred on his own. “What good would it have done for you to know? You were doing so well, and the whining little shits couldn’t see beyond their noses! Why let you waste time putting out little fires when you’re busy _fixing_ everything else?” 

“Because _I’m the Empress_ ,” you snap, relishing in the enraged shrillness of your voice. “Because I can’t be an Empress if I don’t know what the Empire wants!” 

“So if the Empire wants Condesce, you’ll _become_ Condesce for them?” Sollux shoots back, sneering, and you can tell the precise moment he realizes what he’s said because the sneer falls to pieces on his face. “FF—“ 

“I _want_ to do good,” you realize you’re crying, and you hate yourself for it. “For the Empire. For _us_. I want to do the right thing.” You swallow hard. “I can’t do the right thing, if I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not a child anymore, Sollux. I’m not going to shatter inside out just because some of them don’t like me. I can’t make them all happy, individually! But I have to listen to them, at least, how else do you expect me to make the right call when the time comes?” 

“I _know_ that!” He throws himself into a chair and buries his face into his hands. “I know that, but I didn’t want you to carry that burden, I didn’t want you to risk breaking under it.” 

You feel a stab of pity twined with rancor sink into your heart at his words. _He thinks I’m weak_ , you think, _he thinks I’m not good enough_. And you don’t say the words because voicing them would certainly destroy him. You know how much he has invested in you, how much of his sanity and his sense of self has been lost to this ridiculous mad dream of yours, to make the Empire into something other than a monstrosity. But this isn’t right, this isn’t how you wanted things to go _. It never does go the way I want it to_ , you muse, taking a moment to swallow back your tears and sort out your emotions, lest you say something you’ll regret. 

“I am the Empress,” you say after a moment, “the Empire is my burden, by definition, not yours.” 

“I was just trying to help,” he mutters miserably, and you think he might break down crying any moment now. 

“I know,” you whisper, reaching out to place your hands on his shoulders. “And I love you more than words can describe, for that. But this isn’t helping _anyone_.” 

“Let them trial me, then,” he whispers, with that same self-destructive edge you’ve learned to dread, “let them take it out on me. Let them—“ 

“No,” you reach down and press your lips to the crown of his head. “We’re going to fix this, and it’s going to be okay, but not like that. I’m the Empress and you shouldn’t have lied to me, but it’s my fault too, for believing you when I knew it was too good to be true.” You take a deep breath and lean in to press your lips against his, but he doesn’t kiss back, seemingly in shock. You don’t care, wrapping your arms tight around him. “I’m the _Empress_ ,” you repeat, a lot more certain now, “it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let them try to make a scapegoat out of my matesprit just so they can feel better about what they’ve done.” 

Sollux hiccups a short laugh, finally wrapping his arms around you as well. 

“Flushed for you,” he whispers, clinging for all he’s worth. “Flushed for you forever.” 

  


* * *

  


“You know what always makes me feel better, after crying my eye out?” Glydan asks casually, pointedly not looking at you in the eye as you both lean against the railing of a rickety looking catwalk in the maze of back corridors and maintenance shafts of the _Deathfowl_. “Crablegs.” 

After you sneaked out of the block through a ventilation shaft, Terezi went in to assess the damage your conversation with Sollux left behind, and possibly make more herself. That was two hours ago. Your pan is boiling with ideas and you’re halfway sick with conflicting emotions, because despite what you might have said in that block, you have absolutely no idea how to fix this. And you have to. You absolutely have to, you cannot afford to be a bad Empress anymore. 

You look at Glydan with a squint, but he just shrugs, not quite meeting your eye. You’ve decided you respect Garfit, for all you wish you didn’t. You’ve decided you want Cadmus dead. You’ve decided you might like Arthur. But you have no idea what to do with Glydan at all. He grins after a moment and pulls a box out of his sylladex and offers it to you after he opens it. You stare a little at the neat line of fried crablegs in it. 

“I don’t think—“ 

“Look, I’m not even going to pretend to know what you’re going through,” he shrugs, taking a leg and shoving it in his mouth with a snort, talking with the thing caught between his teeth. “Empty sympathy sucks balls and I’m too fucking cool for that shit anyway. But you’re upset and that’s making me upset, and I eat when I’m upset.” He pauses a moment, then shrugs. “Besides, thanks to Pyrope’s marathon papping in there, we’re stuck here, because I can’t sneak you out until the next shift change. And that’s _hours_ from now.” He offers the box again, grinning. “So let’s eat. You must be hungry, yeah?” 

“Do you even realize what’s going on?” You hiss, deciding he is a suitable target to vent your anger on, after he’s tried so hard to piss you off. “Or are you just _stupid_?” 

Glydan laughs and slurps loudly on the crableg in his mouth. Then he spits it out into the abyss below. You can’t help but twitch a little at the sight, vaguely grossed out. 

“What about what’s going on?” He arches both eyebrows, making his scar stretch across his face and making it obvious the socket under it is empty. “You mean besides the fact you’ve been removed from power because Lord Imoogi’s feeling fucking _didactic_? Cry me a river, you lost your shiny crown for a couple days.” He snorts. “Last time Lord Imoogi decided to be didactic with me, I lost a fucking _eye_.” You realize you’re staring and considering how much you’ve found his lack of manners annoying, you know you should stop. You just can’t. “Do you realize how long you’re going to live? Do you realize how long most of the kids helping you out are going to live? Please, in a thousand sweeps you’re going to look back at this and _laugh until you cry_.” He snorts and grabs another treat before almost shoving the box at your hands. “Eat a fucking crableg and stop feeling sorry for yourself.” 

Halfway through a crableg, you realize what just happened and slow down your chewing to stare at him in bewilderment. 

“Did you just _order_ me around?” You ask, not even sure you are angry about _that_. 

Mostly you’re just confused because you just _obeyed_. 

“Quite the novel experience, that, isn’t it?” He laughs smugly, rolling the crust of a leg between his lips. “If it’s any consolation, I’m really good at ordering people around. Kinda the basis of my job description.” 

“I’m the Empress,” you say, somewhat petulant, and find yourself annoyed by the fact you can’t help but smirk back at him when he grins. “No one orders me around.” 

“Well,” he shrugs, “technically speaking, you’re not _my_ Empress.” 

The humor falls from your face so fast it almost makes a sound. 

“Excuse me?” You narrow your eyes dangerously, feeling the anger come back in full force. 

“…oh,” Glydan looks, surprisingly, like he wants to smack himself in the face. Which he does. “Oh.” He shakes his head. “No, not like that.” He grins a little sheepishly, which manages to deflate your anger by sheer obfuscation. “Pirate and all, y’know?” 

“Oh,” you sigh, not quite sure what to answer to that. 

“Yeah,” he scratches his chin with the tip of a crableg, and you barely resist the urge to snatch it out of his hand just to make him stop. “I still report to Lord Imoogi, which indirectly I guess it means I report to you, but I’m still a pirate. You know, ruthless rebel, traitor to the Empire and all its laws. I’m pretty sure the lawless side of the job is what makes Pyrope take it as a personal offence that she likes me.” 

“Terezi loves the law above all else,” you snort, giving him a side look. “But I’m sure you’d already figured that one out.” 

“I found her, you know,” he nudges the box until you sigh and take another crableg, just so he’ll stop giving you that look. He smirks and takes another one for himself. “In the Fringe. My crew found her. She was pretty pissed about waking up inside a pirate ship. It was a pretty nasty mess. You’re going to hear all about that in the trial, I’m sure.” 

You thin your lips. 

“I don’t think I’m allowed to witness the trial,” you scowl, “a jury of his peers, right? Without my rank, I’m not his peer.” Glydan looks at you like you’re a few marbles short of a full set. Your scowl deepens defensively. “What?” 

“You know, I’ve always thought pirates and the Empress are closest to being peers, than the Empress and her Lords.” 

“And how do you figure _that_ one out?” You tilt your head to the side, squinting again. You think you might never stop squinting at him, every so often. 

“Because only pirates and the Empress are allowed to do whatever the fuck they want, the law be damned.” He leans back against the railing, puffing up arrogantly. “If you want to sit in the fucking trial, go sit in the fucking trial. If you want to call the whole thing off, then call the whole thing off.” 

You open your mouth to retort something snide, then decide not to, instead stealing the last crableg in the box. 

“Terezi is going to murder you one day,” you comment, almost a non sequitur. 

“I know,” he grins, shameless, “it’s going to be _awesome_.” 

  


* * *

  


A trial, it seems, is a lot more complicated than you’d have thought – or maybe Terezi has been meddling about far more than you’d thought she would – because it’s been a full week after you were dethroned, and there’s still no trial yet. In case you decide you do want to crash the party – as Glydan so delicately put it – and storm the trial, you sneak into the _Morrigan_ with the not so subtle aid of doors randomly opening for you and instructions in your husktop every step of the way. You don’t need a pirate or an Imoogi – or worse, _both_ – to help you get around, thank you very much. 

Even though you still get fabulously lost, despite your guide. 

Maintenance shafts are like a maze of corridors that look exactly the same as the one before, except for the labels that make no sense because you have no idea what’s supposed to go where, inside a ship. You’re feeling more than a little cranky by that revelation, in light of all that you appear to be completely ignorant of. You turn down a catwalk into a corridor, only to find a tealblood stretching to stand on her toes and rummaging into a vent lodged high in the wall. 

“Excuse me,” you say, folding your hands in front of you, “I seem to be lost.” 

“And how did you manage—“ She turns to look at you, and the moment she sees you, the annoyance in her tone falls nearly as fast as she does. She scrambles a bit, backing away. "Yo-yo-you—" The girl stutters, pressing hard against the wall and staring at you with wide, terrified eyes. She seems to get enough of her pan working all at once, because she hastily drops to her knees, refusing to even look at your feet. “My Empress!” 

"No," you sigh, smiling wryly. "Actually, I’m not the Empress." The poor tealblood makes a gurgling, confused noise in the back of her throat. "I think I got fired," you joke, half smiling. "For a little while, at least. Because I haven’t been a terribly good Empress lately. So you can just call me Feferi, if you want." 

There’s a long, long moment of silence, as the tealblood stays down and you keep staring at her and hoping she’ll say something. Anything. You take a deep breath, and wonder what exactly is fueling her fear, where in the divide she falls. Does she like you as an Empress? Or does she think you’re tearing the Empire apart, inside out? Does she even care? You bite the inside of your lip and offer what you hope is a sheepish smile. 

“You can stand up, you know, it’s okay,” you let out a small, choked up laugh. “But I really am lost.” She stands up reluctantly, blinking at you warily, before opening her mouth. She seems to think it better, because she closes it almost at once. “It’s alright,” you promise, “you can call me an idiot.” 

“I wouldn’t call you an idiot!” She snaps, horrified, before slapping a hand over her mouth. “I’m sure you had an excellent reason for why you’d go walking into the maintenance shafts instead of through the main corridors of the ship.” 

“I do have a reason,” you offer, after a moment, “but it’s not very good, in and of itself. So you could very well call it idotic.” 

There’s a momentary pause. 

“I can’t call the Empress an idiot,” she hisses, almost in despair. 

“You can totally call the Empress an idiot, especially when she’s being one,” you grin a little, “more so if the Empress in question is me. It’s okay.” 

“It’s _not_ ,” she insists, getting more and more worked up about it, “that’s—YOU!” 

You jump a little, startled, at the sharp change in tone and demeanor, before you realize she’s not talking at you. She storms past you, and you take a moment to stare, because that sure is a pile of bright lime green slime trying to roll away into another vent, a few yards down the corridor. 

“I will captchalog you, you festering ball of stupid, see if I don’t! Get out of there!” 

You stare in fascination as she sticks her hands into the slime without a care, tugging at it as if it were more solid than… well, slime. To your absolute surprise, the thing does comply, and what slides out of the vent and onto the floor, raising up to nearly nine feet is a troll-shapped monstrosity that looks like a chastised child about to get scolded by its lusus. 

“You know what those are?” The tealblood yells, pointing at the vent that’s… smoking and slowly melting. You blink, and look at her hands, which are strangely clean, despite the rough handling. “Those are vents, you monstrous piece of rejected lab stupid! _Air_ vents! You know what goes in air vents? Air! Not you! Not your fucking corrosive trail, _stop melting the vents in my ship!_ ” The creature gurgles pitifully, reshaping itself in a way that seems almost… slouching. “Now go do what I _actually_ told you to do, and clean the fucking rotary engines!” The thing slouches away, tracking slime along the catwalk, which sizzles a little, but doesn’t seem to be melting. “And keep the fuck away from my booze stash!” The woman yells after it, before burying her face into her hands. 

“I know who you are,” you say, causing her to look up at you in surprise, as if she’d forgotten you were here in the first place. She blinks. "You’re Equius’ Head Admin!" You exclaim, amused, as the pieces finally fall in to place. "Captain Zahhak," you clarify, a bit unnecessarily, but still somewhat embarrassed by the overt familiarity of your tone. 

Very improper, that. 

“ _You_ know me?” She asks, incredulous. 

“ _Of_ you, at least,” you grin, “you’re… ah, I’m terrible with names, I’m sorry, it’s starts with an A, I think, you’re… Head Admin Sy.. Sie… Zi… Zigzag?” 

Something funny happens, because her expression changes, going dim for a moment, almost sad, before lighting up and losing a few sweeps in the process. You realize she’s smiling, and this time it’s reaching all the way to her eyes. 

"Well, you’ve gone and done it," she sighs, hands on her hips, "you’ve made me see you as a _person_ , now no matter how much I try, you’ll never be just the Empress to me." 

“ _Just_ the Empress?” You arch an eyebrow at her. 

"You know what I mean!" She snorts. "Just the rank and the title and the very real cull threat behind them. You’re a person now.” She sighs, as if this were truly a terrible thing, letting her arms fall at her sides. “And the name is Agness, Agness Syzygy, Head Admin of the _Morrigan_. And I don’t want to know why you know about me. Of me. Just… whatever Captain Zahhak said, it’s not true.” 

You grin a little. 

"So you’re _not_ an incredibly smart troll with a fantastic gift for authority that keeps his ship running as close to perfection as possible?" Your grin widens a little when she flushes, color rising high on her cheeks. "He also said you knit." 

"Bloody highbloods," she mutters under her breath. " _Yes_ , but he didn’t have to tell the _Empress_ about it!” 

"I think the right word would be bragging," you can’t help but snicker as she snorts loudly at that, "actually." 

Agness stares at you for a long moment, as if contemplating her options. 

"You know, I’ve just decided," she says, folding her arms with a huff. "This isn’t happening to me." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah, I probably slipped and fell and hit my head, like everyone’s been telling me I will, what with the slime monstrosity always at my heels and all." She shakes her head. "You’ll see, I’m probably lying somewhere at the bottom of a shaft, bleeding to death and enjoying one last acid trip courtesy of my broken thinkpan, because _this isn’t happening to me_." 

"What isn’t happening to you, exactly?" You ask, and realize you’re teasing, as if you’ve only just remembered that playfulness is a pretty big part of your personality. 

"This! You!" Agness throws her arms up in the air. "This entire conversation!" 

"Well, I do hope you’re wrong," you say, resting your hands on your hips and arching your back a little. "Because I still have no idea where I am, and you’re my best shot of getting out of here some time in the next hour, as opposed to the next millennia." 

“…I need a drink,” she concludes, morosely. 

You startle at the sound of your own laughter. 

  


* * *

  


Agness doesn’t ask questions, though she probably should. She doesn’t ask why you’re lurking around her ship or how you got there or why you’d want to learn the easiest way to get to the main audience block, undetected, through the maintenance shafts. Agness looks at you in the eye, shakes her head, and does as you ask with very little fuss. She’s not what you expected, truthfully, not after what Equius has told you. You were expecting someone far more forceful, more… intimidating. She’s thin and tiny and very clearly old, and the realization strikes you just as you find yourself sitting in a comfortable chair in a cramped block, studying the absurd amount of half-done knitting littering the place. 

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t ask questions, because she’s just a tealblood admin that has no real bearing or vested interest in the situation, that you’ve found yourself spilling the whole sordid story to her. Not all of it, not the things no one else can know, but enough. She’s just another troll, probably a billion out there, just like her. And that’s why you care what she thinks, you suppose, because she’s the common denominator, in the Empire. And you’ve been very bad at actually knowing what the Empire wants. 

"You know what the dumbest thing is?" You say, with a little shrill laugh that sounds like a scream even to your ears, "I still want someone to tell me what to do, deep down." 

"That’s not dumb," Agness laughs, and you like the way she laughs, because it’s weightless, and you feel bad for being jealous, but you don’t remember, what that feels like, to laugh sincerely just because that’s how you feel. You’re not yourself, and you haven’t been, perhaps for longer than you’d like to admit. Maybe this whole mess with Imoogi only put it into perspective, and the idea is terrifying. Agness refills your glass before plopping back into a big, round cushion she insists it’s actually a chair. " _Everyone_ needs someone to tell them what to do, every once in a while." 

"But I’m the Empress," you scoff, only to cover up the fact you’re whining. She arches an eyebrow at you, and you hate and love the fact it makes you grin a little. "Usually, just not currently. It’s my job to tell everyone else what to do." 

"I reckon even an Empress is allowed to ask for direction, every once in a while," she says, shrugging pragmatically in a way you’d call wise if you weren’t sure it’d piss her off. "I mean, this Imoogi Lord, they survived your predecessor, right? Even as meddling and obnoxious as they can be." 

"Condesce trusted them," you admit, somewhat reluctantly, because you might not be five anymore but you’re still somewhat queasy at the prospect of wholeheartedly trusting someone Condesce did, just on principle. "But I’m not Condesce." 

"Well no, and thank god for that, honestly," Agness wrinkles her nose a little, and grins when you can’t quite choke back a giggle. "But if Condesce could trust someone to tell her what to do, every now and then, then maybe that means you can, too?" 

You ponder her words for a moment, leaning back as if testing the sturdiness of the chair. 

"I’m starting to think we’ve got all this wrong," you say, after a moment, smiling wryly, "maybe I should have been an Admin, instead of an Empress. Admin folk seem to be smart and like their lot and don’t have to deal with Lords and politics and _blugh_." 

"There’s requisition forms, though." Agness snorts. "And there’s audits." 

"Between audits and Lord Imoogi, I would pick the audits," you say, far more honestly than you intended to. 

Agness doesn’t notice, or she’s too polite to make it obvious she did. 

"See, only a non-Admin would say that." 

“Maybe,” you smile, and then sober up, by degrees. You put your glass on the desk, nearby, and fold your hands on your lap. “Agness?” She pauses, looking at you warily. “Am I a good Empress?” 

She tips back her glass in one go, then purposely doesn’t look at you. 

“I don’t know,” she says, slow and measured, and yet somehow you feel the strangest urge to believe anything she says, “you’re the only Empress I’ve ever known.” She looks at you under her lashes. “All I really know about Condesce is that I’d be dead, if she were still Empress.” She pauses a moment and then laughs. “Though who cares, right? I’m just one troll.” 

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” You shrug. “When you get down to it, the Empire is made of just trolls.” You take a deep breath. “I feel like… somewhere along the line, I forgot about that. Somewhere along the line, I stopped thinking about the Empire as being made of literally billions of people who have their own lives and their own worries and couldn’t really care less about me except for rank.” You smile at her. “Trolls who don’t see me as a person. And it’s funny because I do the exact same thing, don’t I? I look at them as this… single, cohesive whole. The Empire. The Empire this, the Empire that… but there really isn’t one single thing that’s good for the Empire as a whole, is it? Everything that’s good for someone, it’s bad for someone else.” 

Agness shakes her head and refills her glass with a sigh. 

“I’m going to tell you something I told my best friend when we were dumb stupid kids figuring our way out of a munition catalog.” She smirks, eyes unfocusing a little as she recalls the memory. “Eridan, stop trying to make everyone happy, you’re just making everyone fucking miserable, and it’s not going to change the fact somebody out there is always going to hate you.” 

The glass slips off your hand, alcohol seeping into your clothes as the class bounces once on the floor before shattering on the next impact. Agness shrieks a bit in surprise. You look down at yourself a little dumbly. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, hoarse, as you try to swallow around something painful and awkward stuck in your throat. “I’m sorry, I was just…” 

But Agness is already trying to clean it, moving around you and not daring to touch you, busy picking the shards of glass off the floor. 

“Alcohol makes me stupid,” she whispers, just the slightest tremor in her voice, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I just—“ 

“You said you needed a drink and I was the idiot who said you should get it, it’s okay,” you laugh, awkward, and a little too shrill. “It’s okay, Agness. Agness, I’m not mad.” 

“I forgot my place,” she goes on, shrinking back, “I always forget my place, Captain Zahhak yells at me about it three times a shift, I just—“ 

“Good,” you reach out and grab her shoulders, to make her stop, but instead she goes rigid in your hands, staring at you through wide, horrified eyes. “ _Good_ ,” you repeat, swallowing hard and pretending you didn’t just very obviously break one of the greatest taboos in the entire Empire. “Not that Equius yells at you, good that you can forget your place. Because it’s a lousy place. I’m your Empress, or at least I used to be, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a troll.” You swallow hard. “Right now, that’s all I am, really. Just a troll.” 

“You’re not just—“ 

“I’m just a stupid girl with a really obnoxious job who’s far too idiotic to even know how to do it right, and you’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“But—“ 

“Look at you,” you say, folding down to kneel by her, relaxing your grip until it’s a parody of a comforting touch, rather than a restrain, but all it does is make Agness shrink back further. “You’re kind and nice and competent. You know where you stand, with your job, with your Captain, even with a bizarre slime creature no one else can keep in place. You know what your job is and you know how to do it, and it makes you happy, I think. And despite it all, there’s a stupid rule, somewhere, that you have to grovel at my feet because I’m supposed to be worth a billion of you. Is that not ugly?” You shake her a little, and you feel something embarrassingly close to tears clogging up your throat. “Isn’t that just _wrong_?” 

“You’re the Empress,” she whispers, eyes wide and face pale. 

“Yes,” you smile, biting your lower lip, “just not a very good one.” 

  


* * *

  


“I’ve been gone less than half a perigee,” Kanaya says, with a put upon snort, putting her coat on the back of the chair, “and suddenly you’re dethroned, Sollux is arrested, three of our friends have completely lost their minds, and the so called Dragon of the Fringe is throwing a monumental tantrum.” She sits down, ankles primly crossed and hands folded in her lap. “And yet here you are, not doing anything about it.” 

You lean back, legs pulled up against your chest and hands holding onto your ankles. Not precisely the most royal of postures, but you’re deep in your personal quarters and you don’t care. Kanaya has seen you through worse. 

“I’m waiting, thank you,” you scoff, “to see how the trial goes. What else would you have me do?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kanaya deadpans, rolling her eyes, “demand Imoogi’s head in a platter?” 

“I’ve given the idea the consideration it deserves,” you reply, sniffing disdainfully for effect. “Which means I’ve been resisting temptation ever since they got here.” You take a deep breath. “I want their head in a platter, believe me, but just because I want it doesn’t mean it’s right.” 

“You’re the Empress!” Kanaya snaps, and she must be truly mad, because her skin starts glowing almost at once, “they _can’t_ do this!” 

“Garfit Imoogi is Lord Paramount of the Alternian Empire.” You shrug. “Turns out that means they can.” 

“That’s not what I _meant_.” Kanaya narrows her eyes. “Just because they can, doesn’t mean they _should_.” 

“Which applies to me, too, you know?” You raise your hands in defeat. “Just because I can call the whole thing quits doesn’t mean I should. Sollux wants to stand trial, and I hate every bit of this, but I think he should. I think it’d be worse, in the long run, if he didn’t.” 

“Why?” She asks, sarcasm heavy in her tone, “because otherwise you wouldn’t be setting a terrible precedent? They might be Lord Paramount and they might have the theoretical power to do this, but there’s a reason no one has _actually_ done this before. We are an Empire. Empires have Empresses. No one but another Empress has the power to dethrone an Empress.” 

“The Lord Paramount has that power for a reason,” you say, despite not knowing what that reason might be. 

“Because it’s _symbolic_ ,” Kanaya takes a deep breath between her fangs, clearly unamused. “Lords have all sorts of powers that they’re not actually allowed to use. Gamzee has the power to slaughter any troll he damn well pleases. _Gamzee_. And you know why he doesn’t? Because he knows that the letter of the law is nowhere near the actual application of the law. Gamzee, Feferi. Gamzee knows this. Why don’t you?” 

“Because maybe it’s wrong!” You snap, feeling yourself starting to get angry again. Which is a shame, because you’d almost managed not to be angry for a good while now. “Because maybe this Empire wouldn’t be such a rotten, putrid thing, if the letter of the law was actually followed through. What if Empresses left behind actual laws, instead of ridiculous loophole collections that only perpetuate the same oppressive bullshit every time!” 

Kanaya’s eyes narrow. 

“You’ve been talking with Terezi,” she concludes, somewhat condescendingly. “You sound an awful lot like my kismesis, right now.” 

You flare your nostrils in annoyance. 

“Well, you sound an awful lot like _my_ kismesis,” you snap, not quite snarling, “and I don’t need to tell _you_ why that’s a bad thing.” 

“Oh, so now you’re going to tell me that only _Vriska_ would disagree with you on this?” The glow brightens some more, as her fangs look far longer than you know them to be. 

“No!” You bury your face into your knees. “But only Vriska enters a conversation completely certain of her own conclusions and argues just for the sake of arguing. You don’t even know the whole story.” 

“I don’t need to!” Kanaya pauses for a moment, pinching her nose with her fingers and visibly trying to collect herself. “You are the Empress, no one has the right to take the throne away from you, not even for a minute. You’re looking at this in the now. You’re not thinking of the ramifications in the future.” 

“The Empire might realize they have an Empress who’s actually willing to listen and let the law follow due process,” you say, completely deadpan, “oh, the horror.” 

“Or they’ll see it as weakness,” she narrows her eyes. “They’ll see it as a sign of an Empress who can be manipulated, an excuse to look for more obscure loopholes. How many Lords do you think are going to get wind of this, and then decide to research what obscure powers their titles might have given them that they never knew about?” 

“Then I’ll just have to prove them wrong,” you snarl, “if it comes to that.” 

Kanaya snorts quietly, shaking her head. She’s tired and testy, but you don’t blame her. This wasn’t exactly how you were hoping to greet her from her visit to Alternia. Long travel doesn’t suit her, and her condition only makes it worse. You feel a pang of a bitter old regret under your ribs. The condition that you gave her, you mean, with those godforsaken powers of yours that have never quite worked the way you’d wanted them to. What good is it to give life to someone, if they’d much rather be dead? Or undead? 

“What is this about?” Kanaya asks, pulling you out of your thoughts with her tone alone. “Really.” 

“I think Garfit has a point,” you sigh, “I think Sollux and I screwed up along the way. I don’t like the way they’re going about making their point any more than you do, but that doesn’t negate the fact they might be right.” 

“So prove they _aren’t_ right,” Kanaya gives you an exasperated look. “Prove that you didn’t screw up as badly as they think you did.” 

“I’m entirely open to suggestions,” you say, far more sarcastically than you intended. “I’ve been mostly sitting here and crying about this, certainly not thinking about alternatives or anything.” 

Kanaya pretends she didn’t notice. 

“This girl,” she arches an eyebrows, “the one who attack you. Have you talked to her? Heard what she has to say about all this?” You stare at her. Kanaya chuckles wryly. “Honestly, what do you even do when I’m not around?” 

“Sit down and cry, mostly,” you say, not quite honestly, but certainly not joking anymore. “C’mon.” 

  


* * *

  


“I have nothing to say to you,” the girl – Astrea, you remember Aradia called her – snarls quietly from the depths of her cell. 

You feel your lips thinning somewhat, as you study her imprisonment. The thick, flexible chains holding her arms crossed behind her back and her legs folded as she kneels in the center of the room. There’s nothing else but the IV drip connected to her arm, steadily providing very basic sustenance and a cocktail that cripples her psychic abilities. You had to authorize the drip when she used her powers and nearly killed three laughsassins that were planning on thoroughly disregarding your orders. 

“I’m not angry at you, for what you did to me,” you say, and then pause for a moment, because you realize it’s true. You just were not expecting it to be true. “I want to know why you did it, though.” 

“Oh, so now you’re going to listen?” She snorts, and it’s still bizarre, to see this mirage of Terezi in front of you. “A little too late, now, isn’t it?” 

“Better late than never!” You say, forcing fake cheer into your voice as you drag a chair and sit right in front of her. “And then there’s the fact thanks to you I have absolutely nothing else to do now, so I might as well sit here and wait for you to tell me.” Her grin falls to pieces at that, a frown tugging at her brow. “And you do want to tell me. You managed to impersonate one of my closest allies for nearly five perigees. You fooled her moirail and her matesprit, too. You’re not doing this for shits and giggles, no matter what you’d like me to believe.” You narrow your eyes when she scoffed. “When you attacked me, you said you were justice. You’re doing this for a reason. A very good reason, too, because you knew damn well that even if you succeeded, there was no way you weren’t going to get culled for it. You were willing to die, for this. I want to know why.” 

She breaks, not with a curse and a loud snarl, but rather with a quiet sigh that tastes of triumph to you. She raises her head and laughs under her breath. 

“You’re not going to understand this, talking to me,” she says, after nearly twelve hours of the game. “I don’t give the orders, I only obey them.” 

“Even if they mean you’ll die?” You ask, unable to keep a trace of spite out of your tone. 

“Who cares? As long as you’re stopped, it’ll be alright.” You dearly wish she weren’t so close a match to Terezi. But her voice and her smirk and the way her tongue drags on certain sounds, it’s all very much Terezi. 

“And why do I have to be stopped?” You tilt your head to the side, “what have I done to make you this mad?” 

The grin goes wider, deeper. You find yourself scowling and bracing inwardly, without really knowing why. 

“It’s not what you’ve done,” she says, trying to hold in a laugh, “it’s what you _will_ do.” She breaks down cackling, making her restraints tense and clink in place. “Or what you’ll _try_ to do. So I failed, the next one won’t.” Something unpleasant sits in the pit of your gut at the sound of her voice. “We _know_ who you are, Feferi Peixes, we’re not going to let you destroy the Empire.” 

You decide you’re not running away. Because that would be cowardly. Even if that’s really all you want to do right now. Instead you walk out of the block and back to your quarters and very politely tell Kanaya to stop trying to help, because this isn’t helping _at all_. 

  


* * *

  


“So perhaps you’re not quite as hopeless as I thought you were.” 

You look up and stare. No matter how much you stare the vision before your eyes doesn’t change. You’re struck by the random thought that this isn’t what you imagined his voice would sound like. Then again, all your assumptions about him have been wrong, so categorically, completely wrong, you might as well stop pretending you know anything about him. 

“You do learn,” the Psiioniic drawls, that slow, hissing tone that makes your fins twitch a little. “Barely, but progress is progress.” 

You feel yourself flushing with anger and a not so insignificant amount of shame. Today, Sollux stands trial. You planned and prepared and you still chose to sit in Kanaya’s garden rather than go hear what they have to say. At least for now. You’ve been telling yourself just five minutes more for an hour now, but it’s alright because they can’t have possibly gone into anything substantial yet. The trial is supposed to last days, as it is. 

“Are you here to mock me?” You hiss, and regret it, because you had promised yourself you wouldn’t let him see you as just another incarnation of Condesce, no matter what. 

You wonder if he’s angry, but his expression doesn’t change, and you find yourself studying the tattoos on his skin, the subtle golden hue on the vines spreading down his cheeks and his neck, disappearing under his clothes and coming out his sleeves along the back of his hands. You wonder how much that hurt. You wonder why he’d do something like that. 

“No,” he says, after a moment, before he starts hobbling away with that slow, grandiose way of his that strikes you as ten times more intimidating than anything else you’ve ever seen, “I just wanted you to know that I understand, and that there is someone out there willing to talk about it, if you feel like it.” 

You watch him go, and for a moment it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s just another night, trying to figure out how the transfer of power will go. Another night thinking up hopeful, marvelous things to gift the Empire to make them love you, to prove to them that you’re better than Condesce in ways they haven’t even thought of. 

You let yourself fall back onto the grass and fold your arms over your face. 

Five minutes more. 

Just five minutes more. 

Then you’ll face the music. 

  


* * *

  


You stare at the closed door somewhat apprehensively. The signs on it are unmistakable, familiar in their own way. You take a deep breath and reach out to knock lightly, still not sure if you’re not making a terrible mistake. After a moment, the door slides open and you find yourself face to face with Eridan, half dressed, mostly asleep and holding a mug of coffee in one hand. 

It takes you a fraction of a second longer to recognize him, mostly because his glasses are nowhere to be seen, his hair still has bits of slime tucked in it, and somewhere along the line he stopped being the six sweep vision of your nightmares and kind of just… grew up into a regular old troll. Maybe a little skinnier than average, but that’s it. You suck in a breath through your teeth, not really sure how to tackle this, but aware that you knew, on some level, that this conversation was going to happen somehow. 

"Arthur, I don’t fucking care if it’s on fire—" 

You blink, unconsciously folding your arms over your chest, because you’re still not sure how to go about this. 

Then Eridan puts his glasses on and actually _sees_ you, and you know because his eyes widen, he lets the mug fall to the floor and he slams the button on the wall with a shriek. 

The door slides close with a hiss. 

"…well," you mutter after a moment, choking on a wry chuckle, "that went well.” 

You bite down a giggle and sternly promise yourself you’ll be hysterical for a whole perigee, but only after this mess is sorted out. You take three breaths and raise your hand to knock again, but the door opens before you can. And it’s certainly not Eridan standing there. You reckon this is the closest you’ve actually been to the man, and that from up close he’s not quite as looming as you’d have thought. 

“I’ll be in the observation deck,” the Psiioniic says, pushing past you far more energetically than you’d think a limping troll with a cane could manage, “when you’re done here.” 

You stare at his back in surprise. You thought you were already… oh. You notice the door is wide open still, and you can see Eridan struggling to put up a shirt and not let go of his coffee at once, further inside the room. You look back at the Psiioniic as he turns a corner, and you feel very, very small, and very, very afraid. 

You could just close the door and go, and no one would even know. No one would care. Well, no one except you. 

You step into the room and close the door behind you. Hard things, it seems, are going to become your expertise, by the time this whole mess blows over. 

“Eridan.” 

He stares at you, toothbrush caught between his teeth. He squints. 

“Why the fuck are you still here?” He slurs, and you’re irrationally, stupidly amused at the idea that he still brushes his teeth and has breakfast before a shower, so he’s still numbed all the way to his bones by sopor, and you really, really shouldn’t find that endearing. “I mean, all the figments of my imagination fuck right off after a cup of coffee.” He slouches a little, back bending forward and arms folding in front of him, defensive. “I’m out of coffee already.” 

The long and the short of it, is that he’s pathetic. You called him that and heard him be called that a million times, before, but he never really looked the part. Not until you had him kneeling at your feet and you tried to force yourself to kill him and found you couldn’t. But even then, who was really pathetic, you think, him for having learned his place before you, or you for not knowing how to go through with it? You lick your lips, and admit to yourself what you always knew but never really wanted to think about, when it came to Eridan and all the marvelous ways he screwed you over: you didn’t hate him for what he did – you never really hated him, per se – you hated what he made you feel, the thoughts he put in your head, the way he could almost convince you he was right and you were wrong. 

But now you know you’re wrong, and you _need_ to be wrong. 

And if you plan to do what you need to do, you need to be honest about it. About yourself. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” you say, holding your hands in front of you, to keep yourself from fidgeting. “Karkat is going to be furious, when he finds out, and I wasn’t really planning on being here, either, but I’m going to do something terrible.” You smile nervously. “I still don’t know if it’s going to be the good sort of terrible or if it’s just going to make everyone hate me. But I’ve got to do it.” You take a deep breath, as Eridan leans back against the wall. “And to do that, for better or for worse, I need to have no regrets. I don’t really regret much of what I’ve done.” Your smile feels like it’s hanging with safety pins from your face. “But I think we both know I regret…” You wiggle your fingers a little. “Us.” Eridan chokes on a shrill laugh and you sternly order your eyes to stay dry. “Not us- _us_ , just…” 

“The massively ugly clusterfuck of _absurd fuckery_ that us became?” Eridan offers with an awkward paper thin smile that gives yours a run for its money. 

“Yes.” 

He nods and pushes himself off the wall, heading over to a cabinet across the block. Then stops midway and looks at you over your shoulder. 

“Important question,” he says, one eyebrow arched, “does sorting out your last regret involve me dying?” 

“No!” You yelp, losing your hastily thrown together composure in one word. 

“Great,” Eridan chuckles, pulling out a bottle of pale blue liquid from the cabinet. “That means we’re bringing out _the good stuff_.” 

Stupidly, the only thing you can answer to that is: “You can’t drink that, you just woke up.” 

“And you haven’t slept in a while, I’d reckon,” he snorts, moving over to pour two glasses. “So neither of us should be really drinking, or having this conversation at all. Much less both at once, but fuck it. I’m pretty sure it’s scientifically impossible for us to fuck up any worse than we already did. And if miraculously we _do_ , we’ll just blame the booze and pretend it never happened.” 

“Pretending it never happened doesn’t work,” you say, scowling even as you take the glass from his hand. “That’s how we’ve been sorting things out the past hundred and change sweeps.” 

“Not my idea,” he says, then swings back the glass and coughs as his eyes water. “If you recall.” 

You put the glass down. 

“If you’re just going to blame me—“ 

“What do you _want_ from me?” He snaps, but his voice breaks at the last moment and even if you try, you can’t conjure the sight of him swelling in size with his anger, making you feel stupid and insecure and worthless like he used to. “I fucked up. Granted, it took me nearly a decade to realize the extent of that fuck up, but I _did_. I apologized. I offered to make amends. You told me you didn’t want to see me ever again, so I all but surgically removed myself from your life. And now you’re here, talking about regrets and bullshit, and I’m so far past being terrified it came out the other way as anger, and I don’t want to be angry at you, because I really don’t want to die, but I deserve it and if that’s what you want, just do it and don’t play games with me.” 

The wetness in his eyes and the downward turn of his snarl and the shaking of his hands, all of that is most certainly not the booze. Though you’d really like it if it were. You reach for your glass and tip it back in one go. 

It doesn’t burn on the way down so much as it feels like it’s peeling the inner lining of your throat. You cough, blinking back tears. 

“I wanted to apologize.” 

Eridan stares. You shrug. 

“You don't have to make amends with _me_ , _I_ fucked up.” He scowls, tensing his shoulders because he’s trying to hide the trembling of his arms, but you can tell and it makes something inside you clench. “I deserve what I got." 

"No.” You take a deep breath. “It's come to my attention lately, that I've been childish about things I really shouldn't have. I think that includes you too. To be honest, you’re at the top of the list. I owe you an apology. I’m—“ 

"You told me how you feel, you told me were...” Eridan backs away, flinching. “Well, not okay, but you said we were _done_ —“ 

"I'm not going to say I forgive you because at this point I don't even know if I can.” You lick your lips and focus on his eyes because maybe if you take him in, bit by bit, instead of all at once, your chest will stop hurting like someone’s stabbing it with a rusty fork. “But the truth of the matter is that I _do_ owe you an apology.” Another deep breath. “Because you fucked up. You fucked up royally. But so did I. And I've been childish about it, and of all the things you deserved, you did not deserve that.” You catch yourself about to fold your arms defensively and force yourself to stand up straight. “I was petty, when I looked the other way and let Terezi accuse you, and I was coward when I realized the consequences of what she was doing, and did absolutely nothing to stop it. And I blamed you for a lot of things that weren't really your doing, because you fucked up and it was... I don't know, it was convenient.” You bargain with yourself and clench your hands into fists instead. “That was wrong of me. I know apologizing is not going to change anything, at this point. You've made your life and I've made mine, but if I really want to be a good Empress, I need to start taking responsibility for the shitty decisions I've made. And I know it probably means nothing to you, now, but if you have anything to say to me, I’m listening.” 

Eridan looks at you like you’re the most sacred thing he’s seen in his life, and in the process leaves himself utterly vulnerable to scrutiny. You’re not sure what to do with what you can see, but you definitely don’t know what to do with what he says: 

“I love you.” It’s soft and simple and heartfelt, and the horror must have shown in your face, because he’s smiling grimly and shaking his head. “I’m not _in_ love with you,” he corrects, with enough certainty you want to believe him there’s a difference. “But I really do love you. I’ve loved you since way before I realized the difference between that and a quadrant, and I’m probably going to love you until I die.” He takes a deep breath. “If you really need closure about this, then you need to accept that’s about all I have for you.” 

“ _Why?_ ” 

“Because you’re the real thing, Fef,” he grins, lopsided. “I’ve known it since I was a kid, but I didn’t really get it. _You’re the real thing_. Fuck ideals. Fuck abstract bullshit people write on propaganda banners. You’re the real thing, the big deal. You’re so real I never had a chance, and I knew it, and the thought was so devastating, I just couldn’t give it up. And I fucked up. And maybe you think you overdid it, but I still sometimes think you didn’t punish me enough. Is that me being self-destructive? Is that me being a martyr? Who the fuck knows, that’s how I feel. If I could tell you there’s no hard feelings, I would, but there are. And they’re hard and ugly and bitter, and despite it all, I still love you. And it sucks bulges, to be honest, but I made peace with that a long time ago. So take your peace from me, I have nothing to take from you.” 

“I _miss_ you,” you snarl, crushing the glass in your hand in a fit of temper and shaking off the shards that don’t even deem it fit to help your dramatic proclamation by making you bleed. “I _still_ miss you.” 

“I _know_ ,” he snarls back, fins flaring and making the rings on them jiggle a little. 

“It’s been _two hundred sweeps_ ,” you say, like it means anything, like it should make it hurt less. 

“And it doesn’t really get better, does it?” He smiles sardonically, and then refills his glass and offers it to you. You don’t know why you take it, but you do. You tilt it back before you decide to crush it again. “This is how it’s going to be, for the rest of our lives.” His smile widens as his eyes dim. “Because I fucked up.” 

“ _We_ fucked up,” you give in and finally stomp your foot in frustration, at him and Garfit and the world at large. “Both of us. We made a mess and since neither of us knows how to fix it, we’re just going to have to deal with it.” 

“You can still cull me,” he offers, morbidly sympathetic, and you have to reel in the urge to slap him for the flippant tone. “Frankly, I doubt anyone would really hold it against you.” 

“I’m not culling anyone!” You yell, throwing the glass into the wall. You pant for a moment, ashamed to realize how close to a rage meltdown you really are. “I’m not culling anyone,” you repeat, gasping for breath and trying to force your voice to be even. “No one is going to die.” 

Suddenly, your pan is quiet, and in the silence between your ears, you hear the click of pieces falling into place. 

“Fef?” Eridan asks, giving a step forward, concerned. 

You laugh. 

“No one dies this time around,” you promise, cryptic and maybe a little drunk. “Thank you.” 

Perhaps you are more than a little drunk, but you don’t fight the impulse when it comes, so you reach out and press your lips to Eridan’s cheek, ignoring the way he tenses up horribly when you do. You must make a pretty interesting picture, half crying, half hysteric, possibly drunk and completely determined. You don’t care. 

You need to get to the observation deck. 

  


* * *

  


“I tried to make everyone happy.” 

You’re still panting from that run, so the words tumble off your tongue a little awkwardly. To his credit, the Psiioniic doesn’t seem in the least bit perturbed by that. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, as if prompting you to continue. You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself despite the fact the floor keeps moving under your feet. 

What the fuck did Eridan give you? Paint thinner? 

“That’s what I did wrong,” you say, focusing on what needs to be said, because you figure at least the Psiioniic in the whole damn Empire who cares about the content of a message, more than how it’s delivered. “I tried to make _everyone_ happy.” 

“You’re drunk,” he muses, leaning back on his chair, one leg hooked on the other and cane resting on his lap almost like a sword. "That's new." 

“Only,” you go on, trying to cling to the clarity of that single eureka moment. “Only I wasn’t trying to make everyone happy, because I knew what’d make them happy. I was trying to make everyone agree to what I thought was happy.” The grin of enlightenment falls from your face in pieces as you realize the obvious consequence of what you just said. “I’m a tyrant.” 

He laughs. 

It’s quite and snide and terrifying. You swallow hard and try not to cower when he stands up. 

“You’re an Empress,” he says, deadpan. “You will always be a tyrant. If you don’t want to be one, quit being an Empress and go hide in exile in some corner of the Fringe like Garfit did.” He purses his lips in an expression that makes you flinch. “You’re the cutest, sweetest, kindest tyrant this Empire has ever had.” He snorts. “You’re still a tyrant.” 

“And that’s the last thing I ever wanted to be,” you say, because you have nothing better to defend yourself with. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he goes on, unrepentant, “it’s what you are.” 

“But—“ 

“Are you going to run away?” He seems to swell in size when he leans in, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. You take a millisecond to wonder when he started wearing glasses or where he got them, before you feel yourself scowl. “Are you going to stop being a tyrant and let someone else try to do the job?” 

Arthur’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. You swallow hard and square your shoulders. 

“No.” 

He smacks you with his cane and snorts loudly, going to slump in his chair. 

“Then I suggest you make peace with the fact you’re a tyrant and will always be.” 

You narrow your eyes. 

“Why do _you_ hate me?” You blurt out, since you’re probably never going to get another chance and he’s apparently in a chatty mood. You’re emotional and _drunk_ , and this is a terrible idea, but you can’t stop. You won’t let yourself stop. “Is this about Eri—“ 

“You want to be my Empress,” he interrupts, nonchalant, and sits down again, hands folded on his cane. You're keenly aware that he's not denying he hates you. He's _justifying_ it. “I refuse to bow to another Empress in however many miserable sweeps are there left in me.” 

“But—“ 

“You’re an Empress,” he repeats, tilting his chin back arrogantly. “Some might even call you a competent one. You will _never_ be my Empress.” 

You bite the inside of your lower lip, and instead of rolling with it, you study the urge to argue that keeps pushing up against your gills. _Tyrant_. The word echoes in your mind, overcoming the rushing of blood in your veins. 

“Okay,” you say, deflating in stages, purposely. You take another deep breath. “Thank you for your time.” 

“One order,” he says, after you’ve turned away, and you stop to listen but don’t give him the satisfaction to turn again to face him. “That’s all I’ll ever give you. One order. And I’ll obey, no questions asked, no matter what it is, no matter what it costs me. You have my word.” 

Staring straight ahead, you narrow your eyes: “Why?” 

“Because now you’re going to think it real carefully,” you can hear the smile in his tone, “before you try to order me around again.” He laughs. “Wouldn’t want to waste your chance on something stupid, now would you?” 

You turn around to glare at him properly. 

“You’re an absolute bastard,” you say, almost conversationally, “did you know that?” 

“Yes,” he grins, crooked fangs and all, and the tattoos on his face wrinkle as he does, “but at least I’m not a _tyrant_.” 

You storm away without another word. 

  


* * *

  


“Before you do what I know you’re about to do,” Garfit says, standing between you and the door to the audience hall, “there’s someone you should meet.” 

Your first instinct is to put a culling fork through their eyes. Instead, you narrow yours and stand tall. 

“Do I?” You sneer. “Because I’m somewhat busy at the moment.” 

“Do you want to know why you were stabbed or not?” Garfit arches an eyebrow, lips tugging up on one side in what would be considered a smile on any other troll, but on them looks like a declaration of war. You flare your nostrils at them, but that seems to be enough. “I figured as much. This way,” they start walking away from the doors, not looking back. “You’re not missing anything important,” they add, when you hesitate to follow them. “They’re still reading the titles of all those involved. They’re going to be there for another shift, at least.” 

“So you don’t need to be there for that?” You ask, after a good half an hour of silence, not caring if it comes out snide, but all you manage to do is make them laugh. 

“Of course not,” they give you a sidelong look, “three quarters of the titles listed are mine. And at least half the rest are titles I created at some point in the past nine thousand sweeps. I think I will survive, if I skip the legalese padding.” 

“Where are we going?” You ask, instead of blowing up in anger and telling them exactly what’s on your mind at the moment. 

“To meet a cultist,” Garfit says, grinning. “Since I know you love them so much. Only this one isn’t as… harmless, as the ones you know.” Garfit stops to open a door for you. You narrow your eyes at them. “This one has a mean bite.” There’s a pause. “Literally.” They tilt their head. “After you, My Lady.” 

The troll inside the block isn’t exactly what you were expecting, given the venom in Garfit’s tone. He stands up when you enter, staring at you with a mixture of horror and surprise. He’s famelic and on the short side, as far as height goes. He’s wearing strange clothes, some sort of robe that certainly doesn’t fit any uniform you’ve ever seen. His hair is uneven and not particularly clean. But the truly striking thing about him are his eyes. 

They’re lime green. 

“Shall I do introductions?” Garfit asks, in a taunting tone. “Very well. My Lady, Riishi Varaha, prophet of the Fringe. Riishi, Feferi Peixes, Empress of Alternia and All Its Colonies.” Their expression turns severe. “Is she the troll of your dreams?” 

You splutter. You can’t help it. But before you can say anything, the limeblood falls to his knees. 

“No,” he whispers, horrified, “no, there must be a mistake, the Handmaid said—“ 

“The Handmaid lies,” Garfit snaps, unforgiving. “It’s about the only thing she knows how to do. She lies and schemes and manipulates fools into their doom for her own amusement. Your prophecy was a lie.” 

“The prophecy is true,” the other troll snarls, clenching his fists, “my dreams are true!” 

“But she’s not the troll you dreamed about,” Garfit replies, voice a mocking singsong. “You said so yourself.” 

“If not her, then the next!” 

You clear your throat loudly, folding your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t suppose one of you could maybe explain what’s going on?” You ask, frowning. 

“This fool,” Garfit points dismissively at the limeblood, not even bothering to look at him, “let the Handmaid convince him a stupid fever dream was a prophecy—“ 

“It _was_ real,” the limeblood snarls, taking one step towards Garfit before realizing what he’s doing. “I saw the Empress in the cradle of the world, laughing as she tore the Empire apart.” 

You stare. 

“You saw _an_ Empress,” Garfit snorts, “if you saw anything at all, you—“ 

“You sent Astrea to kill me,” you say, quiet, as the carefully arranged ideas in your pan fall into disarray again. “You thought I was going to destroy the Empire.” 

“I’m a prophet,” the man says, shrugging lightly, “my prophecy is all I have.” He smiles, despite it all. “Even if I was wrong about you, what’s done is done. The cult will endure, until the time comes. Cull me if you must, but that won’t change a thing.” 

“No.” You stare at Garfit, the murderous tilt of their lips, mystified by their answer. They smile at you, when they see the look on your face. “No, My Lady, You don’t kill traitors and rebels.” The limeblood bristles at that, but Garfit ignores them. “You don’t execute them in public to make an example out of them. You don’t… _mock_ them in the streets as the utter failures they are.” You study Garfit’s expression and begin to realize how utterly terrifying they truly are. “Last time we did any of that, we inadvertently created a cult that lasted ten thousand sweeps before it fostered the current head of the Empire. No.” They stare at the prophet in the eye. “This is what you do, My Lady, with traitors and rebels and those pesky morons who think they know better than you, how things should be done. You tear off their claws and let them live.” By the look on the limeblood’s face, you’re pretty sure they’re thinking somewhere along the same lines as you. Garfit goes on, all but purring out the words. “You go out of your way to ensure they survive. Because all of them, without fail, will betray themselves, if you let them live long enough.” 

“I would never—“ 

“And once a visionary becomes a traitor to themselves, the only real option they have is death,” Garfit smiles. “Everyone loves a martyr to their cause, someone willing to risk their very lives for what they believe in. But no one remembers the ones who fail. The ones who sell themselves out and stumble. No one needs to know they didn’t stumble on their own or by their own hand. All the world needs to know is that they failed, and not one fist will be raised to avenge them, afterwards.” 

“Leave,” you say, gathering aplomb from every fiber of your being to try and make it sound commanding. Garfit startles. “Leave,” you repeat, less forceful this time, but no less determined. “You have a trial to attend to,” you add, sneering just the tiniest bit. 

Garfit scoffs a little, before shaking their head. 

“Suit yourself,” but at least they don’t slam the door on their way out. 

You turn back to the limeblood. 

“They’re right, you know,” you smile shallowly, “political manipulation aside, I’m not going to cull you.” 

“I’m not afraid of death,” he replies, thinning his lips. 

“Good, me neither,” you shrug. “Riishi, was it?” He grunts in acknowledgement. “Tell me about this prophecy.” You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what the Handmaid said. All of it.” 

“And why would I do that?” He demands, eyes viciously sharp. 

You smile, wide and fiercely, to the point it’s hard to tell it’s not a snarl. 

“Because you can’t even begin to understand how much I don’t want this Empire to burn.” 

  


* * *

  


“Just how angry do you want to make me?” You ask, not really expecting an answer, when you enter your study and find Garfit helping themselves to a cup of tea. 

“Angry enough to kill me,” they say, flippant, “mostly.” 

Oddly, your anger loses all traction after that, deflating in your gut in one fell swoop. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” you mutter, trying to keep your teeth from clenching. “I _need_ you. Alive.” 

“You need _a_ Lord Imoogi,” they laugh, and you envy them their ability to just not care. “I have an heir and all my affairs are suitably in order. But if you’re taking requests, please don’t go for a public execution. Those never turned out well.” 

You take a deep breath. Then another. You walk over to serve yourself a cup of tea and sit across from them. 

“I’m not going to kill you, Garfit,” you congratulate yourself for sounding so serene, despite the fact serene is the last thing you feel. “No matter how tempted I might feel sometimes.” 

Garfit stops smiling. 

“You don’t have a choice.” Their expression softens. “Why do you think no Empress has ever been dethroned the way you were? There’s a price for the power to do that. My life.” 

You take a sip of your tea without really tasting it, feeling realizations and conflicting ideals stirring in your mind. 

“I don’t care.” 

You like Garfit when they’re not smiling like a smug asshole. You like them a lot better this way. 

“Please don’t make all this be in vain,” they whisper, and for one split second, you begin to glimpse what nearly ten thousand sweeps really _mean_. 

“Oh, it won’t be,” you smile, “just because it won’t end the way you planned, it doesn’t mean it’s been all in vain.” You make a small toasting motion with your cup. “Now go back to your bloody trial. Enjoy it while it lasts.” You sigh. “I need to sleep off a hangover.” 

Garfit stares at you with narrowed eyes, as if they’re trying to crawl into your pan and steal all your secrets. You arch an eyebrow. 

Wordlessly, they go. 

  


* * *

  


You resist the urge to bury your face into your hands, when you finally make your way into the audience hall and realize no one noticed because Sollux and Garfit are having another psionic fight. You’re terrified out of your wits, but at least you’re sober and groomed and with something a bit more substantial than an inkling of a plan focusing your efforts. Still. The _Morrigan_ shakes viciously under the psionic pressure. 

“Children,” a raspy, flat voice behind you echoes in the block before the ship _really_ shakes, hard enough to feel like it's going to fall apart. “Enough. Your Empress has something to say.” 

You don’t need to look to know who it is, you can feel it. You’re pretty sure anyone within the entire solar system can feel it. Unlike Garfit’s powers, the Psiioniic’s don’t fall down on you as much as flood every inch of your awareness. There’s a strange lack of threat in the pressure that keeps you standing in place, and perhaps that is the greatest threat, in and of itself. You can feel his power swallowing up Sollux’s and Garfit’s and everyone else’s, quieting them down like a wave crashing into a rock. You think someone faints, you’re not sure. 

And then the tide folds back, receding, until the block is deadly still. 

“Thank you,” you say, as evenly as you can, and you ignore the snort you get for your efforts. You step further into the block, running your eyes over the familiar faces all around, drinking in the shock and the fear and the confusion. You close your eyes for a moment, then let out a controlled breath as you step forward, coming to a stop in the center of the hall. “He’s right, I have something to say.” You laugh weakly. “A lot of things to say, really.” 

“My L—“ 

You raise a hand, and Garfit falls silent at once. Your smile widens. 

“I want to apologize, to all of you,” you raise another hand to cut Sollux’s protests before they can start. “If we’re here to judge incompetence, I believe we should start with mine. I have failed you as an Empress and forced you all into this.” You lick your lips. “But even if I am a failure of an Empress, I’m still your Empress. And my word is still the last word on any matter in the Empire. So here’s the last word on this.” 

You stand up straight, hands held before you, but posture no less war-like than if you had a culling fork at hand. You thought about it, in truth, but you discarded the idea because it seemed overkill. So all you really have are your wits and your voice and the rather poignant lack of a crown on your head. You figure you have nothing else but to _make_ it be enough. 

“For the crimes he was charged with, I sentence Lord Sollux Captor to exile from the Flagship, for no less than a decade. He is free to choose any ship in the Fleet to live in, but he may not spend more than a week in a row aboard the Flagship, until the decade is through.” 

Sollux bows his head, silent, but you notice just the smallest bit of static crawling down his arms as he does. 

“For their betrayal to me, and their choice to be underhanded rather than straightforward to me, I sentence Lord Karkat Vantas to serve in his role as High Chancellor planetbound in Alternia for no less than five sweeps.” 

Karkat thins his lips in displeasure, but he nods, once. 

“I also sentence Lady Terezi Pyrope to exile from the Flagship and the Inner Rim, for no less than seven sweeps. She may reside wherever she pleases, but she may not partake in any legal matters, until after the seven sweeps are over.” 

Terezi grins, but you think it’s more for show than anything else. 

“Lastly, I sentence Lord Gamzee Makara to abandon his post aboard the _Messiah_ and join the crew aboard the _Neverland_ and ensure Astrea Pyrope lives long enough to fulfill her punishment.” 

Gamzee narrows his eyes at you, but shrugs, looking disinterested. 

“For her attempt on my life and impersonating Terezi Pyrope, I sentence Astrea Pyrope to a life of service aboard the Neverland, under direct command of Lord Tavros Nitram. She is not to be harmed in any way, but instead put to work towards the liberation of the Colonies at Lord Nitram’s discretion.” 

You see a flicker of surprise and unease at your words, but that only makes you wish the girl was present to witness her sentence. That would, at least, be entertaining, instead of just painful and raw and stupid. 

“For his crimes against the Empire and my person, I sentence Riishi Varaha to a life of service aboard the _Deathfowl_ , under the direct supervision of Lord Imoogi, who shall, according to their judgment, decide the exact nature his role aboard their ship.” 

The silence takes on a confused note, as brows are furrowed and eyes narrowed around you. Garfit looks almost smug. Good. You were hoping for that, that’s why you saved them for last. 

“For the crime of conspiring to dethroning an Empress, and then actually going through with it,” you smile at Garfit, a viciously kind smile. “I sentence Garfit Imoogi to live and retain their post and rank as Lord Imoogi and Warden of the Fringe, until a time I personally command otherwise.” 

You don’t think Garfit will be smiling any time soon. 

“Lastly, for the crime of spectacularly poor executive performance as ruler of the Empire, I sentence Her Imperious Complacence, Feferi Peixes, to spend the rest of her life trying to be a better Empress.” 

The silence stretches, awkward and a little resentful. You sigh. 

“You’re all dismissed.” 

  


* * *

  


“Shoosh,” Aradia says, gathering you into her arms and running her fingers through your hair, “it’s all over now.” 

“It’s not,” you whine, trying not to give in and sob in relief. 

They’re all gone now. The _Deathfowl_ is heading back to the Fringe, the _Messiah_ is off to catch up with the _Neverland_ , the _Leviathan_ is heading straight to Alternia and the _Morrigan_ is serving as escort. It’s done, and despite it all, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been gutted and stuffed with raw salt and glass dust. 

“Well, no,” Aradia laughs, pressing her lips to your forehead, “but the beginning of the end, is in itself the end. Right?” 

“I’m just going to cry and cling to you for a few hours now,” you giggle, burying your face into her neck. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

Aradia smiles in that suspicious way of hers that means she knows something you don’t. Something important. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” she says, tilting your chin up to press a kiss to your lips, “I have all the time in the world.” 

The Handmaid lies, Garfit said. You know they’re right, and that whatever Aradia knows, is probably terrible and important and terribly important. 

But it’s not your problem, not yet anyway, so you resolve not to worry about it. 

  


* * *

  


_Into that world inside my head_  
 _I’m falling down,_  
 _And that light beyond my reach_  
 _Is gently calling me._  


~ Hatsune Miku, “The Two Met At The Traffic Light.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Let's play a game and leave a comment with the line that made you rage quit. You know you want to.
> 
>  
> 
> [Askblog for this verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com/)


End file.
